The Two Toned Rose
by Laurelindorenae
Summary: Its 1728, one year after Elizabeth Swann's Pirates defeated Cutler Beckett's navy. NOTE: AU... Will is not Captain of the FD yet
1. The Meeting

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the idea and Evie as well as her husband. Will Turner is of course property of Disney, and Rebecca Sparrow is property of /u/643020/Journalistintraining

**Author's Note: **As far as any spelling or grammatical errors go, please ignore them and just ready for the sake of reading…I only write for the sake of having fun, and I don't particularly care for the particulars of the process.

**Chapter One**

**The Meeting**

"Mmm… it looks as though that Sea-rat Turner has returned"

The man's voice seemed unimpressed and altogether he drawled as though the mere thought of such events were trivial and not worth his time, or that of his wife whom he was speaking to. He turned to the dark haired woman at his side, waiting to hear her thoughts on the subject, and being more than just a little judging of what she was going to say. So much so that she swallowed slightly in fear and quickly rethought her response. She bowed her head ever so slightly, her lips pressed together tightly and her eyes closed; showing her fear and her determination in not speaking her mind. What good would that do? It never brought them to anywhere worthwhile.

She opened her eyes and looked up at her older husband; he was at the very latest ten years her senior, and at the very least seven years. She looked him over, his hair was dark like hers, but through his were wisps of silver frost. The little wisps of hair showing only at the nape of his neck; where the white wig did not hide them any more. The wig was bound back with a black ribbon. His face had a few distinct lines, wrinkles that were already setting into his flesh, she suspected this was because he never smiled but wore an almost perpetual frown of disapproval. It seemed that nothing she did was ever good enough. Its not that she minded how he treated her herself, when they were without company, no that didn't bother her because her humiliation wasn't in front of people she cared about, or in public. No, what she hated very much was when he insulted her in front of their children.

At only 19 she was the mother of three children, the oldest being 5 years old. When she had been 13 her mother had sent her off to be married, just like all the other young girls of the upper-class. And just like all the rest she had had absolutely not say in who she married, when, or why. She had no say in how many children she was to bear for her husband. After all, women, like their children, were to be seen and not heard. She'd been practically in the shadows all of her life due to this masculine belief, and although she wanted to give her daughter better, she knew that she could not. To raise her daughter so that she was equal to her sons, would be immoral. Even if her husband allowed it, which she knew that he would never do, than it would only make it harder for her precious daughter, Elise, to find a husband when it was her turn.

But perhaps what had hurt her the most, wasn't the way that her husband treated her, it wasn't that she was a mother at 14, it wasn't even that she hadn't been able to marry for love (as only the poor do, and she had been married from money and status, and for money and status) it was the simple fact that although she knew she did not truly love her husband, she still felt for him. She still cared for him, and to him it couldn't have been anymore the opposite. What hurt her the most was that for 3 of the last 6 years of their marriage she knew that her husband was having an affair with another woman. He had a mistress and more than likely had a number of illegitimate children with that woman. Annabelle, oh how she hated that name; and to think she had been ready to name her own daughter Annabelle.

She could feel her husband's eyes searing into her skin, and she looked up into his dark slate grey eyes. Those eyes pierced her, made her feel weak and immaterial. She had always believed that the eyes of a husband should be warm and welcoming, signalling that he was a safe haven for her to run to, for her to feel free with. Instead he made her feel as though trapped in a cage. Knowing it was better to answer him quickly than to upset him, and in her turn be insulted she looked down the compacted dirt road; to the docks.

"I suppose he was tired of gallivanting around the sea immorally with the rest of the pirate-filth that he seems to travel with."

It almost pained her to force these words out of her lips. She didn't care what said young man did with his time; she couldn't care less that he was a pirate. But she knew her husband was the kind of man that thought anyone that was not in the upper-class and nobility was in fact not worthy to walk on the earth. She knew that although he was disgusted by the thought that any man could mingle with pirates, and disappear away from his duties with the colony for more than three months at a time and could still go un-arrested, and unnoticed, that he didn't truly care what the young man he spoke of did with his time. If only they knew the truth about him.

"You sounded as though that was painful for you, Evie"

Her husband eyed her intensely once more. Evie's eyes widened ever so slightly in fear, and she turned once more to look at her husband. She forced a happy smile and laughed softly as she spoke,

"Oh Philip, do not be silly! I was merely trying to word what it is that I wished to say, although it seems that in so doing it sounded, forced, shall we say? No Philip, I believe as you do, that men such as Turner should not be allowed back into our society. He is not worthy of breathing the air that we breathe. At the very least he should be arrested and charged with his crimes, of which I am sure the list is long my love."

Philip nodded and continued walking along with his wife Evie, not suspecting that her words had been well practised in the late nights that he was with his _darling _Annabelle. Never suspecting that they were forced. He laid his pallid hand over her own slender white hand as it rested in the crook of his elbow as they walked. Philip was always half a step, or more, ahead of her, so that she walked in her husband's wake; as any good wife does.

Ahead of them only a short way, at present, laid the docks of Port Royale, which the King's Royal Navy frequented most often. After the Navy the harbour was used mainly by the traders that came in and out on occasion, to deliver the merchandise to the market for the colony. However, on occasion the harbour was used by the less desirable people in their society. The pirates.

Yet looking around Evie could not see any sign of a ship that was not that of the Navy, or a Merchant Trader's. No sign of pirates letting off one of their own into this port. Yet there in front of her was the proof that indeed a certain young pirate had been returned to his home colony.

Ahead of Evie and her husband stood a young man, only a few years older than Evie. He was leaning over the side of the dock, pulling the thick rope in; coiling it around and around itself as it brought in one of two listing long boats. Turning away from this task he looped the end of the fraying and rotting old rope around the wooden post so that the boat wouldn't drift back out to sea with the current. He turned his back to the couple as they continued to slowly advance. The young man's hair was chocolate brown, and sun bleached in spots, lightened to the colour of butterscotch. His slightly curling hair hanged down to an inch or two below the top of his strong shoulders. He was already a tall man; taller than Philip, yet he stood before a man much larger.

This man was a black-skinned, and who stood nearly a head taller than the young pirate. He wore a broad grin, his stark teeth in bright contrast to his flesh. His hand was on Turner's shoulder. Philip rolled his eyes, even less impressed with the young pirate who was returning, now that he saw his company. It was obviously he believe that Turner was making friends with former slaves. And that was the truth. The man that he was in company with was a run away slave, but what did it matter? Evie smiled slightly, praying her husband did not catch her. She didn't mind who were friends with who. Truly what was skin colour, other than just that, a colour? What did it matter? She shook her head, her smile fading so that she would not be caught. But her ears perked up as she heard Turner's voice speak, full of happiness and warmth.

"Merci mon bon ami. Faites être un voyage sûr et les bénédictions à votre épouse et enfant!"

The black man laughed deeply, and clapped Turner on his shoulder as he answered him,

"Merci beaucoup ! Nous espérerons vous revoir bientôt Will !"

He moved the edge of the dock and lowered himself into the free longboat, picking up the oars once again. He waved to the young man that he had brought back to port; Turner lifted his hand in a wave. The second man started to row away, and Turner turned away from the docks, walking into the town.

Philip clucked his tongue in disgusted.

"Did you see that Evie? Fraternising with former slaves. I thought Turner couldn't sink any lower than he already had. I suppose that I was wrong. "

Evie sighed softly as she looked down at the road while they walked along. She glanced the way that the young man had walked into town, her mind wandering.

Unlike her husband, Evie had never had anything against William Turner. If anything she was fascinated by him, like much of the young eligible women, and young wives here in Port Royale. He wasn't like their husbands most importantly. He was the mysterious one, he was the one that didn't care what your status was, he would always talk to you. He had always been someone that Evie could talk to, most freely she discovered. When he was in port, he was a person that would listen, who would take what was being said to him into consideration, and if one asked him, in the greatest of confidence. He wasn't one to learn a secret and spread it. Once told to him it would never leave his lips again. But most importantly William did not see the difference between white and black, man and woman. For him, or at least for the way he acted, there was no difference, all were equal. Evie began to realize, it was this very factor that made Philip hate William Turner and not because he was a pirate, or because he was never arrested. Smiling to herself, Evie slowly began to realize that William, through his innovative way of thinking and of treating people, must have made just the right number of friends in the world, with just the right people. That was why he had never been arrested. Smiling to herself she gripped Philip's arm a little tighter, and rest her head against his shoulder while they walked. He looked to her more than just a little surprised, but in his turn smiled and put his arm around her shoulders, holding her there as they walked.

He sighed softly as he stepped once more into the darkened Smithy. In the three months that he had been away, the shop had hardly changed. That is to say it had not changed at all. The only difference was, perhaps, the thick caking layer of grey dust coating everything within sight. He looked around himself, peering through the semi-darkness. Thin bands of golden sunlight filtered into the shop through the wooden walls. They were nothing but thin wooden slats nailed to a frame; each slat had a roughly two inch gap between it and the next. On windy nights the cold breath of wind whistled through the Smithy and not even the heat of the hotly burning forge could keep the young man warm. Curled tightly in on himself on his narrow straw-stuffed cot, the heavy woollen blanket clutched intimately close to his chest the wind still stole the warmth from his body. During the hurricane season the water and the wind used to rob him of his health. For years the weather that his home and his work let in to ravage his already exhausted body had nearly killed him. This is the reason he had taken to leaving for months at a time, mostly just during the Hurricane season. Being only twenty-three he did not feel ready to succumb to the ravages of illness.

Sighing softly once more to himself, William moved down the last of the few stairs into his work place. With his warn out leather courier bag resting on his hip he walked across the compacted dirt floor and through a small door that lead to another room.

The room was small, and there wasn't much to it. The walls were built the same as the rest of the shop, with the widely spaced woodened slats. Off to the side of the room, against one of the walls was a low-to-the-floor sleeping cot, whose mattress was firm, but flat due to its straw stuffing. The pillow was almost as flat as the mattress and stuffed with bits of old clothing. The woollen blanket, a simple grey in colour lay haphazardly over the bed, as though it had been tossed aside in a hurry when last it was used. Beside the head of the cot was a small and unadorned nightstand, on which rested an oil lamp; the glass cover dirtied with soot and smoke. Beside the lamp lay a small leather bound journal. His book of orders from the people of Port Royale, after all he was the Blacksmith. Inside he calculated the billing for each and every piece that he had made.

William had been the Blacksmith in Port Royale for nigh on six years, at least it would be this coming winter. Before this had had two years of training from the previous Blacksmith, one J. Brown. Brown had taken Will in when Will was thirteen years old, and adopted him, if that's what it could be called. Since that day James had worked him like a mule, and so much as _trained _him as he had forced him to learn for himself how to work with the burning metal. But thankfully, James had died, and left Will his shop. Though the death was sudden, and some in the Port spoke that perhaps William had indeed murdered his cruel master. William didn't care much for what they said about him; but he wasn't about to reveal the truth either, and that in itself was proof enough for anyone that could see passed William's charming exterior. When asked about J. Brown's death, a deeply unsettling, and positively evil smirk came over his normally soft and caring features, twisting them in a dark truth.

William set the leather bag down on the bed as he turned his back to the cot, before sitting down slowly. He put his face into his hands tiredly. The last three months had taken its toll on him in a way that his work here as the Blacksmith did not. Its not that he was unfit, in truth he was far from it, but the work was far different. When there was work to be done, it was demanding, and normally a life or death situation when on board his dear friend's ship. With the Hurricane season came numerous dangerous storms. Each storm brought the high possibility of death, and with each storm the crew grew more and more tired, and careless. The risk of death increased by a large percentage. And yet through another hurricane season the ship, the crew and William, had come out unscathed. This year there were no fatalities upon the _Pearl_, and for that William could not be happier. But although storms were hard and exhausting, they were the least of the problem. Unless there was a storm there was next to no work to be done. If he and the rest of the crew were lucky there might be a sail that needed mending, or a rope latter that needed retying, or perhaps the deck needed to be tarred once more to keep it water tight. But the truth was that there was rarely any work to be had while the sun shone. This year they had been unlucky enough that between two tropical storms they had encountered the Doldrums. A place of the sea where there was simply no wind to be had, not even a lick. For six days the ship listed helplessly, being only moved ever so slightly by the currently that licked at the hull. The crew, William included, had lost their minds to Cabin Fever. Madness was still eating away at their minds when the ship was suddenly tossed like a cork; Calypso's rage had burst once more, casting them into a week long storm; presumably to make up for the Doldrums. That storm had taken its toll on them maddened crew of the _Black Pearl_. In his folly a crew member had been thrown from the ship, and had it not been for the quick movements of William and half of the crew he would have drowned. William had quickly tied a thick and strong rope around his waist, and dove into the raging sea without a second thought. Leaving the crew to quickly grab onto the quickly uncoiling rope as he dove to find the sinking pirate. And miraculously he had saved the crewman from a certain death. But this year had exhausted William, far more than it should have at his age.

As he sat there, his face in his warn and rough hands it slowly started to dawn on him. At twenty-three he was still alone in the world. Unlike most men his age he was yet unmarried, and yet without children. Men such as Philip Lewis, who was married to the lovely Evie White-Lewis, had married his then thirteen-year-old bride at the age of twenty, and even he had married late according to societies written, and un-written laws. But William, who was still in his prime was not even betrothed to me married. It wasn't as though there was a fiancée here in Port Royale waiting for him to return so they could be married. It wasn't as though many women wanted to be with him. He was the one they looked down upon. Yes he may have been the one they all secretly pined for (much opposed to his knowledge) because he was the mysterious one, but for the same reason they pined for him, they looked down upon him. He was mysterious, and dangerous to be around. He was a pirate, and therefore he could not be trusted. He was nothing but scum in society's eye.

By twenty-three he should be a husband at the very least, but he should also be the father of at least one child. William had never had the time to be that involved with any woman as to have a child, whether legitimately, or otherwise. With his slowly dawning epiphany, William realized that if he continued to run away every year he would never be married, and never have the children that he did in truth, despite his reputation, long for. He would die old (if he was lucky enough to make it to thirty, knowing the hostilities of both his professions) and alone. A fate that to him was rather unwelcome and unfathomable. But what woman in her right mind would marry him? He was a Blacksmith. Every morning he woke up before the dawn in order to stoke his forge back to the roaring life he needed to work. As soon as it reached the much needed heat he set to work, and normally he did not stop unless it was that someone was calling on him for yet another order. And should he be lucky enough he set his work down at ten o'clock that night. It gave him precisely thirty minutes in which to prepare and to eat a simple dinner before he had to retire for the night. What woman would marry a man that never was there? Even Philip was there for Evie part of the time. But William couldn't be, and its not as though his wife could be near him while he worked. No he would have to move out of the Smithy and into a house if he were ever to be married, the small room beyond his shop was barely big enough for him, it would never hold two people comfortably. And should he ever have children, which he was starting to doubt, he wouldn't want them running around in his shop were they could easily get hurt, either being burnt by his forge, or injured on one of the many cutlasses that lay around. No, he didn't think it likely he would be married any time soon.

He needed air. William stood up slowly, feeling that his now worrying mind was getting the better of his already tired body. He was feeling rather nauseous as he stood; one arm held against his abdomen. He shook out his long hair slowly so that it fell once more around his shoulder.

Once outside the fresh air calmed his nerves, if only a little. Falling silent, although he hadn't spoken since he waved his friend Amar off to return to the well hidden _Pearl, _his whole demeanour seemed to be silent. Normally his body language would have been talking for him, and perhaps it still was. But now it was more subdued, reflecting an either sad man, or a man that was lost deeply in this thoughts. For William it happened to be the same thing at the moment. With nowhere left to go but back to the water he slipped his hands into his pockets, slowly sauntering back to the way he came. However he didn't stop at the harbour this time. He simply kept on walking, eventually reaching the public part of the beach. So deeply lost was he in his thoughts that it took him a moment to notice her.

Out maybe thirty yards from the shore a young woman was thrashing around in the dark cyan water. The woman's long blonde hair was flailing with her as she fought to keep herself above the water. Her discarded dress lay in the sand not far from William; the white cotton dirtied by the sand, the floral pattern smudged.. With next to zero thought on the matter William dove into the water and started to swim out to the drowning young woman. He wrapped his arms around her narrow and doubtlessly corseted waist. He pulled her closer into himself so that he may be able to pull her to safety, but much to his surprise she screamed shrilly. Her thrashing arms moved again and her pale right hand came slashing down, slapping him in the face with as much force as her petite frame could generate. He felt the flesh just along his hairline on the left side of his face split open with the force and with the ring she wore on her hand. He could feel the warm trickle streaming ever so slightly down his forehead. The woman stopped moving and gasped in slight horror seeing the damage she had done to him. She stopped struggling and let William, who was now blinking the Venetian red blood out of his dark eyes, pull her into the shore.

William pulled her out of the water and into the sand by her dress as he laid down upon his back, panting, not far away. The young woman pushed herself up, so that she was sitting. Her flaxen hair was soaked, and water streamed out of her curls as she sat there. There once white shift was now dark beige, soaked with water, and covered now in sand as she sat there. Biting her lip nervously she leaned down over her _rescuer_. He lay with his eyes close tiredly as he caught his breath.

"I'm sorry I hit you Mr. Turner but I thought you were trying to kidnap me! I mean honestly you came out of nowhere and suddenly grabbed me! What was I supposed to do?"

William's brows knit together as he lay there, his expression undoubtedly that of anger. He opened his spiced rum eyes and looked up at her, before pushing himself up so that he sat in front of her, his presence slightly intimidating.

"I came out of nowhere? Excuse me? I was trying to help you, you were drowning!"

The woman seemed to be taken aback, and her expression changed to match his, her brows knit in anger; her hazel eyes glowing with rage.

"Drowning?! I wasn't drowning you brute I was just floating!"

"Is that what you call flailing around and thrashing like some kind of beached sea creature!?"

William growled now as he barked at the women he quickly realized he should have left to drown, or as she called it 'float'.

"How dare you talk to me like that?!"

She raised her hand once again, to strike. William didn't know if it was an empty threat or she meant to hit him. He didn't have the chance to find out. Without realizing that he had done it, he flinched, turning his face away from her to avoid her painfully sharp ring once again. After all this time he might not be as lucky as before; this time she might put the ring to his eye. He didn't want to lose his eye, obviously, besides he didn't think he could find a glass eye with his iris colour. The woman noticed him flinch and turn away from her. She realized the blood was still trickling down his wet face. The water was rolling down out of his hair and down his cheek bone, that's where the blood and water met making it look as though there was a great deal more than there truly was. She sighed softly to herself, lowering her hand. When William didn't feel her strike he carefully turned back to look at her. She sighed softly, her hands resting in her wet lap as she looked up at him.

"I'm sorry I shouldn't have hit you the first time - but you shouldn't have grabbed me!"

"I thought I was helping you! I didn't want to see you drown!"

She half smiled to herself and nodded,

"Alright Mr. Turner--"

"My name is Will--"

The woman nodded her head, her eyes closed,

"Alright, William--"

"No. My name is Will. That's what I go by. Just Will."

She opened her eyes once more, looking into her _saviour's _sparkling wet face and nodded. She felt a little odd however calling him by such a… a childish short form for his given name.

"Alright Will… I'm Rebecca Sparrow… I suppose that would be Becka for short"

It felt all together even stranger to have such a short from for her own name. She hadn't gone by anything shorter than Rebecca since she was a very small child.

"Becka Sparrow… You're Jack Sparrow's sister, aren't you?"

She was barely listening to him, only noticing that her shortened name sounded better when he said it than when she did. Though that was most likely due to the fact that shortened names always sound better when said by people other than the person whose name it was. She didn't answer him, and when she didn't respond Will looked at her oddly. His dark and slightly shaped brow rose up as he watched her, waiting for her to answer him. She blinked and turned to look at him. She stared back at him blankly. Will lifted his hand, rolling it at the wrist as though to say 'come on, come on'

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Becka's brows rose up as she questioned him, looking from his motioning hand, to his eyes. Will's brows knit together in an unimpressed stare to respond to her complete lack of attention.

"I said 'You're Jack Sparrow's sister, aren't you?'"

"Oh!"

Becka jumped slightly, and blushed realizing that she had been asked a question while her mind had been elsewhere. She also seemed to realize that she had no idea just how long he had been waiting for his answer. Smirking Will decided to play on this factor,

"What, had to think about it?"

"No!", she gasped embarrassedly, crossing her arms over her chest, "I'm his half-sister actually. Our mother had become pregnant before she married my father. She married my father, Maverick Sparrow, and then had Jack a short time later, so my parents just named him a Sparrow. I was born about 19 years after that"

"Ah. That would explain why you don't look like Jack very much. Anyway I had better get back to…work…"

He sighed, his voice strained as he pushed himself up and started to stand, brushing the sand and minute shell pieces off of his clothing. Becka looked up at him,

"You can't just get up and leave."

"And why not?"

He looked down at her questioningly as he waited for her response. Becka blushed faintly.

"You have a cut that needs to be taken care of, an I highly doubt that you can do that yourself!"

Will rolled his eyes and sat back down in the sand in front of her. He knew she was going to do this as soon as she apologized for hitting him in the first place, but he'd been hoping to escape her before she could stop him. So far he was starting to believe that Jack was the normal child in the family; and that was truly saying something.

Becka smiled softly and sat up on her knees, and moved closer to him. She came so close that Will could smell her slight perfume. He bit his lip; this was too close, he didn't like people being this close unless he knew them, and Rebecca he distinctly did **not** know. Becka's damp white fingers came up and brushed his hair out of the cut that she had caused ever so gently, so that there was no way that she could hurt him. Will waited patiently, though he was fighting the urge to get away from her something terrible. He couldn't tell if it was because she was too close and he found her a little odd, or if it was because she was simply too close. Becka turned and looked around her, her eyes falling on her dress that lay in the sand a little ways away. She lifted up the hem a little and with a quick motion she tore off piece of the soft cotton. She lifted it to her lips and dabbed it against her tongue gently, before using it to tenderly wipe the blood away from the cut. After a few moments she pulled back from him. Will let out a breath he wasn't aware that he had been holding. Becka did not notice his exhale. She looked over the cut from her position in front of him.

"Alright… that's the best I can do out here. It should heal alright but it may scar. I could clean it better if you were come to my father's house but expect you have other things to do today, Mr. Turner."

Will nodded, barely listening to her, instead just looking into her sparkling hazel eyes trying to figure out why he was this uncomfortable. He simply nodded and stood up once more. He brushed the sand off of himself and looked down at her as she picked up her dress. He smiled kindly down at her.

"Thank you Becka. I appreciate it-- just please don't hit me again if you see me"

She frowned at him but nodded.

"I said I was sorry…"

"I know, I know."

Will half laughed and held his arms open, inviting her into a hug, giving up and figuring out why she made him uncomfortable. He had noticed that he seemed to do the same to her and he didn't want her to feel badly about what she did. If anything, looking at the situation as though he were someone in her family, her brother, or father perhaps, he was happy she smacked him. She wasn't afraid to defend herself.

Becka looked at his face, her eyes moving to his outstretched arms, then back to his face questioningly. She looked around them slowly, making sure that no one was watching them. In any case if anyone happened to see her, as Rebecca was a young lady of the upper-class, hugging a man that was not her father or brother she would be scorned and looked down upon by the rest of the women and their husbands. There was no one around them although; they were alone on the beach for now. She bit her lip and moved closer, leaning into the port's Blacksmith and wrapping her arms around his torso as she felt his arms enfold her. She was considerably shorter than him; her face came to rest in the crook of his both sea-water soaked, and sweaty neck.

"Thank you for cleaning up that cut. I know that I would have left it to do whatever it would on its own if you hadn't stopped me from leaving."

Becka pulled back from him as he let go of her.

"Well you should take better care of yourself! I'm sure your wife wouldn't appreciate it if you fell apart on her"

Will half laughed at her reaction; and to think that fifteen minutes before he had just been thinking about how he didn't have someone to be upset if he fell apart at the seams.

"What is so funny Mr. Turner?"

"Mm… I am not married, that's what's funny. No one to be upset if I do fall apart."

"Oh…", Becka's voice was soft, she was definitely embarrassed that she had said anything. "Well… thank you anyway for saving me from 'drowning'."

Will nodded and looked at her as she turned her back on him, pulling her over dress on once more. He spoke up,

"Oh, and you shouldn't be upset for hitting me. It was a good thing, you're not afraid of defending yourself."

"I--"

Becka turned around to answer him, but when she turned she saw that he had already left. There was no sign of him on the beach. He must have cut through the tropical forested area to head back into town. She sighed softly, before finishing the sentence intended for him.

"I appreciate that…"


	2. Butting Heads

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the idea and Evie as well as her husband. Will Turner is of course property of Disney, and Rebecca Sparrow is property of /u/643020/Journalistintraining

**Author's Note: **As far as any spelling or grammatical errors go, please ignore them and just ready for the sake of reading…I only write for the sake of having fun, and I don't particularly care for the particulars of the process.

**Chapter Two**

**Butting Heads**

The hurricane season was finally coming to an end, and the people of Port Royale could not be happier. As every year the treacherous time period lasted from the start of June, to the end of November. The winds were like an insatiable beast, always hungry, and always consuming everything that came into its path. Destroying everything in its wake. And with the winds came the horrible lashing rains. At times the water could be so forceful on its own the structures simply buckled and families were left either homeless, if they were lucky, or parted if they were less blessed.

William Turner had not left in June, when the season was said to start, there was simply no need to leave at that time. Very rarely was there ever a hurricane in the late spring and very early summer, and he wished not leave before he had turned twenty-three. However, he had left at the dawn of August, knowing that was the month in which the storms would start to rip away at the Port. Knowing this, he had known he would much rather be away for the whole of August through the very end of October. These were the months that seemed to be the absolute worst when it came to fighting off the horrific storms. When he returned, it was the very start of November, and the year would within weeks be coming to a close, and 1729 would be upon them. A new year, and fresh start. But November, though still part of the hurricane season, was not known to bring much more than simple thunderstorms, with the coming of winter.

But it was still only November, 1728, and the New Year was still many weeks off yet. But there was much to celebrate, though a times there did not seem to be. November was one of those curious months, much like March it was in weather, and in feel. November wasn't a month that could be counted on to be anything but untrustworthy. With the death of October and the birth of November, the winds changed and the temperature dropped, if only a few degrees. Certainly the Caribbean never experienced the same nature of Winter as had been encountered by a great many of the colonials that lived here, had in England, and the parts of Europe that they had come here to the tropics from. No, the Caribbean 'winter' could hardly be laid into the same category of season as the frigid European winter was, although this winter had some of the same basic charms. November here, just as it was back in England, brought cloud-filled, blackened skies, and miserable moods to both the dirt-poor, and the over-privileged rich.

In fact the only people that seemed to be able to shake off the miserable state of being that the daunting winter brought, were those that had been away living their life as they wished to. That is to say that anyone that had not spent the entirety of the last year in a single spot, even one so beautiful as Port Royale, were the only ones capable of keeping high spirits. Perhaps this was due to the fact that they had not done the very same thing, day in and day out for the last three hundred and four days (three hundred and five if it had happened to be a leap year) and their scenery had changed around them. There were very few people that this could mean, that were not affected by what would be later called the Winter-Blues. The few that remained unaffected were the small amount of Navy Soldiers that had seen battle out on the seas that summer, and William Turner himself. He who had fled to the sea to escape the lashing and ever-hungry hurricanes.

But now that November itself was drawing to a close, and therefore so was the hurricane season for 1728, that meant that the mood would soon lighten once more. December always seemed to reawaken the excitement and joy for life that had died inside of people in November. And better yet, on the night of November the 30th, the Governor of Port Royale, one Weatherby Swann, and his daughter, Elizabeth, would hold a ball for the people of Port Royale as they had every year since they had been there. A celebration to commemorate the end of another undamaging hurricane season for the Port. Although it was said to be for the people of the colony, it was only ever the elite, the upper-class that attended the ball. It was not to say that Governor Swann and his young woman of a daughter did not welcome the rest of the people, but it was that the propriety of the colony looked down upon those as though they were nothing but dirt. Even if a young woman and her husband, who were poor, wanted to attend how could they? Dressed in what were rags in comparison to the rich brocades and silks of the upper-class, and forever being criticized for this factor, how could one ever enjoy themselves? Any lower-class citizen that wished to attend without fear of being ridiculed need at least have one friend in the upper-class who would be willing to spend precious gold on them, dressing them in the finest of clothing, and the newest fashions. But knowing people such as Philip Lewis, it was unlikely that many people would be willing to do such a thing out of pure kindness.

This year Evie White-Lewis would not be attending the celebratory ball. There was simply no use in attending on her own. If anything it would make people look down upon her, or worse, try and introduce her to men other than her husband. Philip had not died, and so she should not be introduced to others as though she were available for a second marriage. No, much to her displeasure, though she had hidden it from him at the time behind a soft glowing smile, Philip had decided that he was going to go back to London to visit old friends. This is the story that he had fed to his wife and children at least. Evie thought this version of his plans to be highly unlikely however. She believed that he would take his _precious_ Annabelle to a neighbouring island and spend the winter months there in her sinful company, and the thought deeply hurt her. It wasn't that she was jealous that it was not herself that would be spending this time with her husband, but it was that he would not be there to celebrate Christmas with his children, and he would not be there to celebrate his daughter, Elise's, third birthday. Elise was their youngest child, and their only daughter. Though Evie supposed that showed just truly what he thought of women; he couldn't even take one day out of his time with his mistress to wish his little a happy birthday; and Elise loved her papa dearly, much more that she should have. Oh how she had cried when her mother had to cautiously tell her that her father would not be there to celebrate her third birthday. And Evie hated her husband all the more for making her daughter cry. For upsetting the darling child.

No, Evie saw no point in attending the celebratory ball this year. Not without her jerk of a husband with her.

He never could get anything for himself could he? No, he always had to send either his wife, or her, his daughter. Why couldn't the man, or any man for that matter, go to the market on his own? Was it so difficult that it made it impossible for a man to carry out? And if so, did that not make the women's 'race' (for they were viewed as sub-human) the superior over men? Of course not, not in a world that was ruled by the men. The only reason that the men sent their wives, daughters, sisters, mothers, mistresses, etc., to do their shopping for them was because somehow it was a woman's job and the men if seen doing such a thing would be shunned. This however made her feel no better. It seemed that it was always something else to be done for as long as she had lived in her parents' home. Its not that she begrudged helping out, its not even that she minded going to the market, but it's the way that they had asked her. No. It was the way that her father had told her to go to the market to pick up fresh greens for the maid, Alice, to prepare for dinner that night that had upset her. She couldn't understand why he didn't even just ask Alice to go pick up the vegetables herself. It was like her father did not want her in the house. She was starting to suspect that was correct.

Rebecca was twenty-two and she still lived comfortably at home with her parents. Maverick, and Sarah Sparrow. It wasn't the fact that she lived with them yet that irritated Maverick the most; it's the fact that she wasn't even trying to leave their house to start a family of her own. At fourteen Rebecca had been meant to have been shipped back to London where she would marry a suitor that her great-aunt Gertrude had chosen for her. But at the last moment Sarah couldn't put her daughter through that fate knowing that within the year her own babe-of-a-daughter would be the mother of at least once child; she prayed that her husband wouldn't give her twins. The thought had just broken Sarah's already fading heart a little too hard, and she fought to keep her daughter at home. At that time, Maverick had been more than happy to keep his young daughter at home with his wife and himself. Now that five years had passed he was starting to realize that no matter how happy he had been at the time, it was indefinitely wrong of him to have let his wife keep Rebecca at home.

It was starting to seem to Maverick, and even to his wife Sarah (though she wished not to believe it) that their daughter would never be married. Rebecca was very much unlike the rest of the girls in the port; or rather perhaps it was that she was exactly like them but that she was the only one that was willing to show that side of herself to anyone. It was not that the men were not interested in her; in fact quite the opposite, and that was to be expected. With her petite frame and golden hair it was hard for the men to not be interested in her. Although Becka did not find herself to be all that attractive, and perhaps she wasn't in her own mind, to the men she was quite obviously the object of their desires. She hated this fact, she had done as much as she could to stop this. In the last five years she had had her share of keen suitors, vying for her attentions, and that number had increased about three years ago when she turned seventeen. In spite of this she had turned down the offers of marriage from every man. At first she had given such trivial and juvenile (befitting of her age at the time) reasons such as that the man was not handsome enough, or not tall enough, or he had the wrong hair colour. She had even once said that because a man with brown hair had been rejected it was because their hair colours clashed and created an eyesore. Though no one could be quite so sure as to say this was the real reason for the rejection from the lovely Miss. Sparrow. But now that she was getting older, and therefore more mature, she was giving logical answers to these rejections; though they sounded just as trivial to the men, and to her father. Her mother however understood, but tried to tell her to lower her standards. One man was given the reason that because he was not well enough educated she would not be marrying him, or having anything to do with him. The next was given the reason that he never listened to her opinion; to which he answered that as a woman she wasn't supposed to have an opinion, and that she should never interfere with him. That man was never let within sight of her again. There had been a few men thought, a few good men that Becka had courted for a small period of time. These men had been polite, well educated and even pretended to listen to her, but unfortunately each of them encountered the same downfall in the end. Each had been secretly boasting to his friends and colleagues that he was 'courting the most beautiful woman, and within the month she would be doing his housework, cooking him meals, and bearing his children.'

After these men, Rebecca refused to have anything to with any of the men in Port Royale, simply not deeming any of them worth her time of day, or worth even the same air that she was breathing. She of course put the lower-class into this category, although never having courted any of them, simply because she believed all them to be the same as the other men. And what did it bother her if she missed out on good, decent men? None of them had gone to school or been tutored, and why in heaven's name would she ever been seen courting a man that was below her social status? She would not be. Women married for money and status, and although she already had these things as a Sparrow, she would not give them up just because the man might actually listen to her; or at least that was what she had deceived herself into thinking.

But her parents were starting to get very antsy about if their daughter would ever be getting married. They had already written off 'their' son Jack, knowing his only love was the sea; much to their chagrin. But to think that their pretty little daughter wouldn't be giving them grandchildren was more than they could bear.

They had wanted her out of the house so they could think things over, and writing letters to the high-society of other neighbouring islands, hoping to find a suitor for her there. They were starting to think they may just have to send her away and not let her come back until she was married and had at least once child, either born and in her arms, or in her belly on its way.

Greens. That's all that they had sent her away to buy in the marketplace. They must have been praying that she would meet up with another young lady, a friend, with whom she would spend a vast amount of time. To keep her away from home as it were. Alice had already bought greens that morning before Miss. Sparrow had even woken up. There was no real errand to be run.

Becka calmly walked through the semi-crowded market place. Women of the lower-class, in their simple coloured dresses of browns, reds, and blues, with their tight fitting lace caps, and lace shawls tucked into their bodices moved out of her way. Bowing their heads in acknowledgement to her social ranking. Her golden curls were gathered back and pinned in

place, and accented with silvery-blue ribbons to match her dress. The brocade was a muted periwinkle blue, which when put in the light sparkled with a silver quality. The Fleur-de-lis barely visible unless one looked closer. The underskirts were the same gently periwinkle, but where unadorned with the silver woven in it. The white lace around the collar and the sleeves seemed stark in contrasted with the cream of the lace on all the other women's dresses. She walked carefully through the rather narrow aisle-ways between the venders; ever careful of her panniered hips. A shallow basket, nearly flat, with a slight curve in it was hooked over her arm as she studied all the venders, looking at things from eggs to jewelled stomachers to fit into the front of her dress to cover the corset. She looked down to her own; it was plain in comparison. Embroidered with pearlescent beads and lace. She was so lost in her own thoughts as she looked over the vegetables once more that she didn't notice the other customer to the side of her. She turned to continue walking on, her head still turned to the side, her eyes still on the vegetables. She barely had a chance to even blink before she felt herself collide with a very solid object; another person. She dropped her basket which was then filled with an assortment of greens, and it fell, spilling in the dirt of the road. She gasped in shock, but she sobered her features, her lips tightly pursed and her brows knit angrily as she looked up. Her eyes widened and a bright blush came to her cheeks in embarrassment as she saw her mistake.

"Mr. Turner!"

Will looked at her, nodding his head silently in greeting as he knelt down to the dirt road. He picked up her wicker basket and the few vegetables that were spilt, and put them once again into their resting place among the woven dried sugar cane stems.

"Miss. Sparrow."

He stood up once again, holding onto her basket, and his own which he had almost dropped. Rebecca was still flushing a bright colour of pink, her hands together in prayer, and pressed against her mouth as she followed him with her hazel eyes.

"Mr. Turner I am sorry, I did not see you standing there."

The Blacksmith shrugged easily as he counted the greens in her basket, and glancing down, he saw one had already been stepped on where it had remained in the dirt, unnoticed by his eyes. Without so much as a word he turned his eyes to his own basket and lifted his arm out of the way slightly so he could reach in. He pulled out one of the vegetables and placed into her basket, replacing the trampled one.

"Its alright, I suppose I am easy enough to miss in a crowd"

He did not sound bitter what-so-ever, but neither did he sound all that pleased. He looked over Becka's shoulder to the vender who was about to shout 'thief!' because Will had not yet paid for his own food when he had given one of the greens to Becka. He sighed softly and reached into his pocket and drew out a silver shilling and tossed it to the man, who caught it and eyed Will almost evilly. Rebecca had noticed that he had exchanged the vegetable, he had of course done so right in front of her.

"Mr. Turner please take it back. I can buy another, I do not need you to waste your hard earned money on me."

He looked back to her, as though being called back to reality.

"Do not be silly. I can also by another…"

Though he did not seem so sure, his pocket feeling a little to light for coinage, while he yet remained without the number of groceries that he needed. Though he supposed with the amount of time that he was given anyway to eat after he worked before he finally collapsed each night was nil. He assumed that one night he could simply skip his meal. It would at least give him extra time to sleep, though he knew that he would end up working longer and spending even less time than normal asleep.

Becka saw the slightly distant look on his face, which was also contorted with the knowledge that he in fact did not have enough money. He went to move passed her, having obviously forgotten for the moment that she was in fact in front of him. She put out her hand, putting it to his chest to stop him. Feeling her slender hand against his breast he froze, and looked back at her. His spiced rum eyes meeting her hazel ones.

"Mr. Turner, please if you will not take the vegetable, at least take a shilling to reimburse yourself. Please."

He shook his head gently and moved to go passed her once more.

"Mr. Turner I won't let you go until you agree with me on one of these matters."

He sighed and looked back at her, he couldn't tell if she was truly trying to be kind and sincere, or if she was only leading him on with these pleasantries, just to insult him in a moment. Although he wanted to believe that she was being kind, he had learned to more than expect the latter of the choices.

"Miss. Sparrow if you think that you are going to pay me for being a gentleman you are mistaken. I won't except your money because I have manners. I won't let it be so that you can tell your friends and family that you had to give to the poor, begging Blacksmith. I did not ask for your charity. In fact it was you who walked into me, and it was I that was giving you assistance."

Becka's mouth opened in shock, she was mouthing words but she couldn't form a full sentence. She seemed to be in shock that he could insinuate that she would just blackmail him. She blinked a few times, her kohl lined eyes staring into his.

"Mr. Turner I was not trying to offend you. I was trying to be kind and generous to you, as you have been to me. I was not going to blackmail you. I know in the past I have been less than human to you at times , ordering you around in your own shop to fulfill my father's orders, hitting you as hard as I could when all you were trying to do was rescue me because you thought I was drowning, but I see now that you are a good person that has taken the abuse from me and from others and still you help me when it is my own fault for dropping that vegetable. I did not ask for you to give me one of yours, and pay for mine. I did not ask you to give up the little money that you have for me."

The tears were starting to sparkle in her hazel eyes, catching Will by surprise. He looked to her in disbelief. She was biting the corner of her lower lip and looking passed his arm, trying to recompose herself; she wouldn't let herself weep in public, and especially not in front of the likes of William Turner. Will sighed softly, regretting assuming that she would be like other people that he had helped, who in the end had turned on him.

"Becka I apologize. I should not have assumed that you were planning to do me wrong. I am sorry for that. But I do not wish for your money, or for the vegetable back. I did what I did out of the good of my heart. "

She looked back to him, just her eyes. They moved quickly to look upon his tall frame. She cast her eyes down to the ground sadly, then looked back up as she turned herself to face him fully once more.

"Than I am paying for your groceries and do not argue with me, Mr. Turner"

Will merely sighed knowing that if he argued with her again they would once again be at square one. And it was already too late. Becka had turned to the vender, and motioned to all of what Will was carrying, showing the vender what all the price would have to be calculated for. She handed the man a gold doubloon and turned back to her Blacksmith companion. She carefully took him by his elbow while he was paying little attention, and steered him out of the tight outdoor aisle-way and out into the wide open square. He looked to her mildly interested as to why he pulled her away.

"About what you said before we departed last time,"

He tilted his head looking at her, his eyes searching her as though trying to remember what it was that she was talking about. She looked up to him and blushed faintly, just barely noticeably,

"About how I should be proud because I at least tried to defend myself,"

"Ah yes, and what about that?"

"I tried to say that I appreciated your words, but when I had turned to say it to you, you had already left the beach. I felt that I needed to tell you again."

She was smiling softly, but looking to the ground as they walked along slowly, having long ago let go of his elbow.

"I see. I thought you would have forgotten about that meeting by now."

Becka prayed subconsciously to herself that he wasn't going to say that he had forgotten about it. But he never did say that, he simply looked to her, and she smiled, shrugging her shoulders a little.

"Its hard to forget when a man dives into the water after you and you think you're being kidnapped,"

She let out a short, shrill little giggle. It sounded as though she had been faking her happiness, and her humour, her laughter, for so long that even now when she was truly giggling at the thought, it sounded just as forced. Will raised his brow as he looked at her, a smirk on his lips, although slightly terrified by her titter. When her laughter subsided she took a deep breath and exhaled softly. She decided to change the subject, feeling the tension between them starting to ice over, and she didn't want to be on his bad side. After all if she ever was drowning and needed him, perhaps he wouldn't save her that way.

"Are you going to attend the Ball at the Governor's house this year? I mean I know its still two weeks away but I am curious to know"

He looked to her, a little surprised by her conversation piece, he chose his words carefully, not wanting to make her feel imperceptive, and not wanting to put himself to shame.

"No, I will not be attending this year. I cannot afford the amount that it would take to turn me from a Pauper, into a Prince."

He was smiling kindly as he spoke, just in case she looked to him and felt guilty. To put her at ease more than anything. Becka looked up to him and smiled softly in response to his,

"That's nonsense. You already look the part of a Pri-"

She caught herself blushing slightly, unable to figure out why such a comparison had entered her mind, and why it had embarrassed her to say it. Will laughed seeing her mortification to lighten the atmosphere.

"Thank you but now I know you are just being kind. However, will you be attending the Ball?"

She looked up at him and shook her head.

"No, not this year. Its not that the dress code is a problem, I'm sorry I'm not trying to make you feel poor-"

"You aren't, calm down and just finish what you were saying,"

Becka nodded and picked up where she had stopped,

" It is not the dress code that is my problem. it's the fact that its rather required for all young women to have an accompanying gentleman, and I have turned down all the men here in Port Royale. And the ones that have not been rejected think me mad for being twenty-two and yet unmarried. Perhaps I am, after all before long I will not be able to bear children and -oh I'm going to die alone and old."

Her breath caught in her throat slightly, she waved him off as he looked to her concered,

"I'm sorry. I am a little emotional, but I suppose if that does happen, it would be my own fault."

Will decided it would be easier to say nothing to this, knowing that whatever he said would only make it worse. He looked up, during the time they had been walking they had drifted back towards the way of her home. Up the road a way was her house. He stopped her and turned to her,

"Well, I suppose this is farewell. I'll see you around I suppose. Thank you for these"

He gestured to the groceries in the basket on his arm. She smiled a little and nodded,

"And thank you for mine"

He smiled and turned, walking back towards the market. Becka sighed sadly to herself and started her way back to her house. Knowing very well that most likely she was not welcome there right now. But what upset her the most was that Will had not asked to take her to the Ball; she would have happily paid the bill to cloth him like a Prince. It would be a small price to pay for him saving her life. And she didn't mean for when he pulled her out of the water…

On his way back into the marketplace, Will thought quietly to himself. Every word of the last twenty minutes shared with Rebecca Sparrow was running through his mind. He was trying hard as he could to discover some hidden meaning into why she had asked if he was going to attend the Ball this year. But the only reasoning he could come up with was that she had wanted to attend it with him, as with him as her suitor for the night. He knew this couldn't possibly be the case, and so he continued to walk along, once again lost in his thoughts. But if, just if this had been what Becka had wanted, why did she just not ask him herself? To spare them both confusion and to spare herself a little more pain when he did not ask her?

Will was so lost in his thoughts it took him a few moments to realize that someone was calling out his name. A woman. At first he expected to turn around and see Becka, which would have made him feel just a little better after his former line of thought, but instead he turned and saw one Mrs. Evie White-Lewis. She was holding up her skirts as she ran to him, calling out 'William!' no and then. She was smiling brightly, and panting just a little. Her dark hair was fraying out slightly from under her bonnet. She slowed when she drew closer, and laughed softly,

"I thought I was going to lose you there for a moment Mr. Turner!"

He smiled and laughed softly,

"Ah Evie I apologize. I was very deep in thought it seems and I never even heard you calling out my name."

She smiled and shook her head lightly; a different woman when Philip was not around. She put her hand on his arm gently as they started to walk once again. Will was cutting through the market to get back to his shop. He was thankful that today was Sunday, his one day off. It didn't matter how long he delayed today because either way he wouldn't need to rush back to work. Evie was still panting slightly, and so Will once again slowed his pace slightly,

"If I am stepping too quickly for you just tell me,"

"Nonsense! It wouldn't matter because I can breathe in this corset"

She smiled showing that his former pace had been alright with her. He nodded his head to her and picked up his steps slightly. They walked on in a comfortable silence for a few moments. Despite how Philip saw Will, what with him not being good enough to be even called a person, Evie had always enjoyed the Blacksmith's company. At nineteen she was a mother and found it very hard to connect with other people of her social standing. Yet with Will she spoke freely and comfortably.

Finally she looked up at him and smiled gently,

"Are you attending the Celebratory Ball this year?"

Will had to laugh to himself briefly,

"This is uncanny, I was just asked that very question ten minutes ago, the answer is no"

But Evie's smile broadened, so much so that for a moment Will was altogether afraid that her face was going to split in two. But she calmed herself a little, still smiling brightly, her eyes twinkling.

"Philip is away with Annabelle. I was wondering, would you come with me to the Ball?"

Will stared at her in shock, blinking slightly. He knew that this would never help the rumour that was already going around port that he and Evie were having an affair behind Philip's back, which of course they were not. He didn't care much right now, instead he returned her bright smile.

"It would be my pleasure."

The evening of November thirtieth came faster than any had anticipated. Though this was a welcomed occurrence, because with it the grey skies of November would vanish and lead the bright Caribbean sun once more, and the hurricane season would be officially over for another year. It had been two weeks, plus a few days since Will and Becka had last spoken, though there was no surprise there. She was the daughter of a well-to-do couple, and Will was just a Blacksmith. Though in the last few days he was that even less and less. Evie, who would be accompanying Will to the Celebratory Ball had been fussing over his clothing, and his style. For the last week or so she had had him with the seamstress for most of the daylight hours trying different cuts and different fabrics for what he was going to wear to the Ball. And with each spent hour in there he felt more and more guilty for both costing her what he was sure would be a fortune (at least to him it would be) and for neglecting his own work, and therefore having no income that week. But also in the last week Will had celebrated Elise's (Evie's daughter) third birthday with the family. He had given to her a brand new teddy bear, which he had managed to scrape the money together for. It was soft, and had glass eyes. He had told her that it was from her father who had given it to him to give her, knowing that he couldn't be there for her birthday. It was a lie, and a fairly large one; but it was worth every makeup lie that he was going to have to spin, when he saw her eyes like up like jewels and hug that teddy bear. At least he could put the smile back on her face when her own father's absence had stolen it.

But finally they had agreed on a cloth and a cut (Evie and the seamstress that is), and the night had finally arrived. Much removed from the way of travel that Will was used to, he and Evie were put up in a grand ebony carriage, pulled by beautifully groomed black horses, six of them, as they were brought to the Ball. The carriage rolled up the hill towards the Swann Manor, from inside one could hear the faint orchestral music. People all turned to look when the saw the dark carriage, and waited for the two inside to exit it. Will was the first one out, after the footman had opened the door and lowered the folding stairs. At the bottom he bowed his head to the man in appreciating, to which he seemed surprised. Will held his hand up for Evie as she exited, to keep her steady due to her heavy dress, which was matching his own new garments. Both in dark cyan, his jacket was velvet and hemmed with gold trim, the waistcoat was cream with black embroidered flowers, and gold buttons. His shirt white and ruffled, and black breeches. His stockings were pure white and he wore black leather pumps with a large ornate silver buckle on each. He wore a white cravat, tied handsomely below his chin. His chocolate hair gathered back at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon, leaving two slight curls at the very front to curl around as they may. He did look like a Prince. Evie's dress was dark cyan cotton, hemmed with the same gold trim as Will's jacket; the underskirts and stomacher were cream and embroidered with black flowers. Her shoes were the same material as her dress, but were hidden by the bottom of the skirts. Her own dark hair had been teased and combed until it was tricked up into a pompadour, in which she had stuck a long golden 'phoenix' feather, a feather from a pheasant that had been brushed heavily with gold powder.

Those around and had been watching were both in awe, and appalled by the sight of the two. There were those, mostly the women, that were surprised to see that the port's Blacksmith cleaned up so well, while the men were revolted to see that the port's Blacksmith was soiling their air space, and a woman that was in fact one of their upper-class. But Will didn't seem to care, he simply brushed them off no matter what they said about him behind his back. Yet they all smiled welcomingly towards him when he had turned away and was walking towards the entrance with Evie White-Lewis on his arm. Inside the Manor though, was a different story.

Off to the side of the Dance Floor, which was the Swanns' sitting room and dining room with the furniture removed, towards the far end a young woman stood, bickering as quietly as she could with her gentleman friend. Her dress was of a pale Ochre, with a soft coppery shimmer behind it. The underskirts were pure white, almost blue, and her stomacher was cream, as well as the lace along all the hems of the dress, and embroidered with a swirling floral pattern. A green bow sat on the top of her stomacher, where the collar separated dress from breast-top. Her silk shoes underneath, which showed ever so slightly, were a soft deep pink. In her hand she held an ornate folding fan, a seen of a green field bordered by trees, front of which were three couples, each in each others arms. The fan was rimmed in black lace. An iron, but beautifully wrought, necklace that was adorned with bright rubies sparkled on her breast. Her blonde hair was built up high into a pompadour, seven soft curls hanging loose upon her shoulders, while a pale blue and pink ostrich feather with a flower protruded from the teased mass of golden hair. Her lips were painted dark, and her eyebrows and eyes line in dark kohl. Her cheeks painted pink in a ever-innocent blush. Rebecca Sparrow.

Both of them happened to spot each other at the same time. Both freezing in what they were doing. Will had been walking across the floor with Evie, and Becka had been bickering with the man she was with, because he wasn't letting her out of his sight, and worse, out of his grip. Will looked to Evie, who was in the middle of her sentence, and spoke gently,

"Evie, I'll be back in a minute…"

She looked rather surprised, but she nodded and let him go. Becka was struggling against her date, trying to get him to let go, but he wouldn't budge.

"Mr. Ralph please let go of Miss. Sparrow…"

Will looked up at the man. He was the same height as the Blacksmith, but he was a rather…large man, and both looked and acted the part of a brute. He snorted looking to Will,

"Oh yeah, and why do you think I'm going to listen to you? Rubbish like you should not even be here tonight"

"Nolan leave him alone and LET ME GO!"

Becka was growling, and trying to get Nolan Ralph's arm away from being around her. Will was losing his temper, and not because Nolan had insulted him.

"Let go of her…"

"Oh what!? Gonna hurt me?"

"Yeah, that's right"

His fist shot out and hit Nolan hard in the face with his right hook. Nolan in his shock and pain let go of Becka so that he could grip his nose, his eyes shut in pain. Will immediately grabbed Becka's arm and pulled her away and into the crowd, despite how she struggled against him.

"Let. Go. Of. Me!!"

He stopped, hearing the anger and the pleading in her voice, and realized that he was being no better than Nolan had been moments before. He let go of her, and started to apologize, trying to tell her that he was just trying to make sure she got as far away from that man as possible. But she wouldn't listen,

"Well like it or not, he was my partner this evening!"

The tears were sparkling in her hazel eyes again, and she looked to Will, who was trying to come closer to her to comfort her. She pushed him back, her hands against his chest hard. He looked to her, utterly confused, but he spoke softly,

"I thought you weren't coming tonight, and why would you come with a man like that? A man that won't let you do anything for yourself?"

"Me? Because no one else would ask me! And I thought you weren't supposed to be coming either! And yet here you are with- with- with HER!"

Will was surprised as the hatred that was in Becka's voice, it truly shocked him. But his anger snapped, hearing the way Rebecca spoke of his friend Evie,

"Hey she asked me after I saw you last! I would of told you but I haven't seen you since! And don't talk about her like she's some creature! She's one of my best friends and her children are ADORABLE!"

People were starting to stare now, but it seems that neither of the two hot-heads cared at all. They were so immersed in their anger and hatred for each other's choice of partner.

"Well so what!? And whose fault is it that I haven't seen you?! YOU could of come up to my house and told me but OH NO! You had to go and keep it to yourself!"

"Why are you so upset!? I know why I am upset, its because some big ugly brute has his hands all over you, manhandling you!"

Becka was shaking with rage, and Will was matching it. But the tears fell from her eyes. Will could only assume that they were tears of anger and not sorrow, after all she was tearing his head off. The ostrich feather in her hair wobbled around as she emphasized her words; both of them were almost screaming at each other.

"Why am I upset!? WHY!? Why do you think I am upset! You - you had to keep this to yourself and because of you I got trapped into coming with Nolan! Damn you and damn Evie!"

"Stop talking about her like that!"

"I'll talk about her however I want William Turner! Its because of her that I'm here with Nolan!"

"How is it HER fault!?"

"Because--!"

Becka stopped, embarrassed, and afraid to say what she was going to say, but the rage in Will's eyes was only insulting her, and she knew she had to say it to perhaps soften that anger. The look of it made her feel like a bad child that was being scolded, and now that she looked at her actions, and his response to them, that's exactly what she was. She was the child that had done wrong and he the disciplining father. The tears built up in her eyes again, but not from anger this time. Her lip quivered as she lifted her proud head up again to look at him level, not wanting to look as intimidated by him as she was.

"Because she brought the man that I wanted to…"

The tears fell. Will, who was so ready to jump down her throat for talking poorly of his friend, stood in astonishment. His mouth was slightly agape, and he moved to speak words, but no sounds came from his lips. He blinked, trying to accept the knowledge that she had just given him. Becka, terribly embarrassed, in front of the entire ball that had stopped to watch and listen, covered her face and ran out. She pushed her way through people that were in little groups, and finally out the door and into the night.

Will was still in disbelief. He stood watching her run, as though frozen to the spot on which he stood. But something in him snapped and he bolted into action. Dashing through the crowd, throwing people out of his way as he ran after Rebecca Sparrow. He sprinted out into the dark night atmosphere and looked around for any sign of his friend's sister, but his eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark. And finally he heard it, the soft sounds of feminine weeping. He stepped further out into the dark as he listened, and his eyes finally caught a glimpse of her. Sitting all alone in the darkened garden, on a stone bench was the daughter of Maverick and Sarah Sparrow. She was dressed up and looked like a perfect doll, but dolls shouldn't be crying from pain and embarrassment. He knew there was nothing he could do or say to make the hurt less, but he was going to comfort her as best he could either way. Will approached her quietly, taking slow and deliberate steps as he edged closer to her, though this extra step was not needed, she would not have been able to hear his leather shoes in the grass over her own hiccupping anyway. And when he had come to her, he moved around in front of her, and slowly knelt down, to stop his knees from cracking.

Becka sat on the cold stone bench, her eyes close, and the makeup all around them running in little black rivers down her fair cheeks. Her pale dress, and white skin glowed with the twilight, as though she were the moon's princess. One hand was lifted up to her eyes as she cried, the other gripping her handkerchief in her lap. Will looked up at her regretfully and looked down once more to the white hand in her lap. He was breathing quietly. He reached gradually and took her hand up in his, and he expected her to be frightened. But Becka seemed to have known that he was there this whole time. She pulled her hand away from her face an looked down upon him, her face smeared with black makeup. Will smiled sadly up at her, before speaking in hushed tones, that where surprisingly like cashmere after their screaming match inside.

" I am sorry, I truly am. If I had known I would never have pushed you to say it, especially not in front of those people."

Becka sniffed and shook her head, her seven free curls swinging,

"That is not why I am crying."

"It is not?"

"No. I am crying because I am insanely jealous of Evie, and although I know its not right, and that it upsets you, I cannot help it."

Will gripped her hand gently, as he looked up into her darkened hazel eyes.

"But why is it that you are jealous of her? She is only a friend and she asked me here-"

"Because I wanted to come with you… I wanted so badly to be the one on your arm tonight."

She hiccupped and started to cry again, unable to stem the flow of her tears, no longer caring how much she smudged her makeup. Will smiled sadly as she cried once more. He waited for a lull in her tears before he spoke again.

"Than why didn't you ask me here, two weeks ago? I would have said yes."

He raised his brows, in the way one does when speaking slowly and softly to a small child who just does not understand what is being explained to them. She looked to him, into his eyes, and quickly looked away. His eyes seemed to peer right through her, and it hurt.

"Because it is not right for a woman to ask the man. The man has to ask the woman-"

"Says who?"

She looked at him shocked by his words,

"I--well-- no one it doesn't need to be said! Its propriety!"

"But if you spend your life waiting to be asked by another you could lose your chance with them."

She looked away, murmuring softly as she did,

"I already have…"

"You have not lost a chance… Come on. Lets go back inside."

Becka looked to him, her face nearly black from her smudged makeup. She shook her head,

"I look terrible. My kohl is everywhere…"

Will took the handkerchief out of her hand, feeling it was already damp with her tears. He lifted it to his lips and dabbed it against his tongue, and lifted it to her cheeks, gently wiping away the smeared kohl. Becka froze as soon as his hand came close, her eyes wide as she watched him. But she had done the same for him when she treated the cut on his forehead that her ring had caused. But even in this darkness the faint scar was visible along his hairline on the left side of his forehead. He looked up at her and smiled gently.


	3. The Best Kept Secret

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the idea and Evie as well as her husband. Will Turner is of course property of Disney, and Rebecca Sparrow is property of /u/643020/Journalistintraining

**Author's Note: **As far as any spelling or grammatical errors go, please ignore them and just ready for the sake of reading…I only write for the sake of having fun, and I don't particularly care for the particulars of the process.

**Chapter Three**

**The Best Kept Secret**

The moon was a silver crescent, shining down its eerie silver-blue light. Every drop of the moon's light graced the dark garden outside of Governor Swann's Manor House. The grass was very long, almost a foot in length in places, and all going to seed. The clover in-between the green shoots speckled the ground with its soft amethyst blooms. All around the borders of the garden, which in and of itself was a large meadow, were oak, elm and rowan trees. A little piece of England in the Caribbean. In the grass, illuminated by the silvery light that fell over him, blessed from the moon, knelt a young man. He looked up into the eyes of the young woman who sat sorrowfully upon the stone bench.

"Are you ready to go back inside?"

Will looked into Becka's eyes cautiously, waiting to hear the slightly younger woman's views. She looked back, still a little surprised by his ease with her. No. Surprised that he was this close to her. He was still holding her hand that remained in her lap, but ever so lightly. She slowly looked down to their hands together, and slowly back up into his waiting spiced rum eyes. She shook her head gently, the ostrich feather swaying at the top of her pompadour.

"No, Mr. Turner -"

"Would you please stop calling me by that name? My name is Will, and that's how I like it, Becka."

She nodded, and noticed once more how much better her shortened and childish name sounded when he spoke it. There was something calming about his voice that made the word sound much more proper than it had when she had spoken it to herself trying to get used to it.

But she did not wish to return to the ball, knowing she would have to face all the people that had seen her run out, weeping with her pearlescent tears. But also would Will have to face the same people. She knew that he would have to face the people that he had already only received scorn from for doing something as completely innocent and inevitable as breathing, or living his life, but now he would be looked down upon for running out the door, pushing everyone aside, in order to go after her. She who was not of his class. But the fact remained that it was not so much for herself that she didn't want to once again return to the pompous wigged and corseted crowd as it was for Will's sake. Becka was already more than too aware that the whole of Port Royale's upper-class thought her to be somewhat mad. She had after all declined the advances of every eligible man in the port, and in her turn lost her favour amongst not only the men, but their mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, etc. It was not that she had only disgraced just one man each time she had rejected a suitor; it was that she had in fact alienated the entire upper-class. She did not want to face the crowd, knowing that each man, woman, child and elder would see her as a spot upon the very fabric of society. They already saw Mr. Turner this way. Rebecca did not care about the way the upper-class viewed her, she had already long ago had given up on finding a suitable young man that would be her husband. And who would want her now? She was passed her prime at twenty-two-two, or at least she and the others believed it to be, and it was unknown if within a year she would be able to bear children. Why would a man marry her if not to have children? No, its not that she minded the way they viewed her, or even treated her, it was that she did not want William Turner to see them treat her the way they treated him. Despite knowing that he had fought Nolan Ralph in order to help her, it had barely crossed her mind. She had no way of knowing if that regardless of his social standing, if he would treat her just the same. What difference was any man among the crowd? Why should one stand out from the rest?

William was holding her hands lightly in her lap as he remained kneeling in front of her. He waited for her to speak once again, his dark eyes trailing over her still slightly kohl stained face. He was determined to wait for her to speak for however long that it might take. He noticed Rebecca seemed to be lost in her own thoughts; he could only hazard to imagine what it was that was flowing through her mind. He waited, and waited. Finally he spoke up once more,

"Well then, if you are not wishing to return to the Ball, I'll escort you home"

Becka looked up from the bottom of her skirts, looking into his eyes quickly; her own filled with a fear that he could not put his finger on. She gripped his hands as she looked into his eyes, her fear now no longer dammed. He grasped her hands gently in response, immediately, to her gripping his fingers. She shook her head once more the ostrich feather swaying dangerously; obviously in response to the question he had asked her.

"No.."

She finally spoke as Will tilted his head to the left, listening and waiting for an explanation as to why she had said no. But she didn't speak again. Gently he pressed her on, he needed to know why she didn't want to go home, so that he might be able to figure out what to do with her.

"Why do you not want to go home?"

Rebecca sighed softly,

"Its because of Mr. Ralph. My parents arranged it with his parents, though why he still lives with them I will never know, that tonight after the ball I was to return home with him. I was not to come home under any circumstances. So I cannot go home. You struck Nolan, and for that I thank you, for defending me when I could not, but now I have to return to him."

"Than you wish me to take you once more inside, through the crowd to find him?"

She shook her head,

"No, I cannot face those people right now, more importantly I could not do that to you. I would be putting your life and health in danger if you were to bring me back to him."

Will was making an effort to read between her words to see what it was that she wanted him to do. Was it that she wanted him to leave her out here all alone in the garden all night? He didn't believe that was what she had in mind.

"Than what would you ask me to do, for surely I won't leave you out here to sleep in the grasses tonight. I will happily take you inside if that is what you wish. I am not afraid of Nolan Ralph, he does not scare me, and nor will he ever"

"Its not that I think you are afraid of him, its that I am afraid that he will hurt you for doing what you did to save me. No Will, I can't let you take me back inside to face him."

Will was starting to get restless with this circular conversation. To him it seemed that nothing was being resolved, and it occurred to him that perhaps Rebecca was trying to draw out her time with him. Here where they were safe and removed from everyone else, safe beneath the stars in Heaven. He let go of her hands, and put his upon his thighs as he stood up. He looked down upon himself, brushing the grass and seeds from the seeding weeds off of himself before turning. He took the loose material of his breeches and brought it up to his hips in the way old men do before they take a seat. He sat down beside her on the cold stone bench. The velvet tails of his coat falling over the back edge of the bench. He turned to look at her, the moon shining off of his skin, and sparkling the reflection of the stars once more back towards her.

"Than what is it, Becka, that you would ask of me? What would ask me to do? I will not leave you here."

She looked up to him, from playing with the lace hemming of her partially blackened handkerchief. She sighed and once more looked to the lace in her hands, her white fingertips trailing over the very edges of it.

"I ask nothing of you, yet you willing choose to aid me, again and again. Every time I have met you in the last month I see more and more that you are a good man and are willing to help those that need it. I feel horrible for always being the one that needs rescuing. I ask nothing of you, Will."

She looked up into his face and smiled gently; he returned the kind smile, but pressed on.

"That is not what I asked you. I will not leave you here and you know it your heart that you do not want me to. No one would. So I ask you again, if you do not want to return to the Ball, and you wish not to go home, where is it that you are to go?"

Becka sighed, her walls were crumbling around her as Will pressed on. She didn't want to put him into a state of danger, but nor did she want to refuse his help, knowing that he, for his status, was a proud man that did not like taking no for an answer. She wet her painted lips slightly before looking up into his dark eyes.

"I suppose I should arrive at the Ralph Manor before Nolan does, that way I can spend the night there as my parents had wished-"

But Will's voice cut her sentence short. It had turned stern once more, though not increased in volume. His voice had a force that made her cringe slightly, knowing he very much did not like her plan.

"If you think that I will take you to the home of a man that will surely hurt you, you are very mistaken. I will not put you in danger, even if it is what you had planned on. I do not care that your parents wanted you to spend the night there. Nolan is, beyond a doubt, planning to _court_ you, to bed you, and take your gifts with, or without your permission. If you think I am going to willingly deliver you to a man that will rape you, you are mistaken."

Becka was still cringing slightly, knowing now that Will was indefinitely not pleased with her course of action. She sighed softly, exhaling in a way that said to him 'than where am I supposed to go?'. Will sighed, shaking his head, knowing what she was meaning behind her sigh,

"You can come with me. I don't see another choice to be had Rebecca. You can come to the Smithy and I will set up a place for you to sleep apart from me. This way you can stay away from your home, and I can promise nothing will happen to you while you are under my watchful eye. You can go home when you choose to tomorrow."

Rebecca sat staring at him in shock. She surely could not stay with a man that was not her husband, or at the very least her fiancé. Than again, that is what she had been going to do with Nolan Ralph, was it not? And surely when Will said nothing would happen to her while she was with him meant that he would not do what she had known Nolan was planning. Will was safe, he wouldn't force her into anything; he had no need to. Unlike her 'gentlemen' friend, Nolan, Will was the kind of person that when someone said he was trustworthy, you could immediately let your guard down against him. Still she was uneasy with the idea of spending the night in the Smithy, and with good reason. The shop was after all bereft of all the effects which made it a house, or even liveable.

"Will, I couldn't possibly stay with you tonight,"

Will raised his brow, watching her and waiting for an explanation as into why she figured that if she could spend the night with someone that was bound to hurt her, why she couldn't spend the night at a place that was a safe haven. Its not like she had been the first either; there had been women who when deep into a one-sided fight with their husbands (their husbands being the one fighting) would run to the first place they thought of; the Smithy. Not only was it a place their husband would not think of going, but also it was so that if indeed the men did find them, there were a myriad of objects they could use to protect themselves. Though this fact was much to Will's chagrin. Though possibly what it was that made this place safe for the women to go to without worry of being 'attacked' was the fact that unlike their husbands Will was…innocent…in a way their husbands had not been for a very long time. And if he wasn't, it would be a shock to the rest of the women; he certainly acted it.

Becka sighed softly and looked back at him, knowing she was losing the silent battle of wills that was happening between them. She nodded her head, dabbing her eyes once more with the blackened handkerchief.

"Alright Mr. Turner… if you believe that it is safer for me to stay with you."

Beside her, Will stood up once more, gently brushing the creases out of the lavish fabrics that he had been made to wear. She looked up to him, watching him; he knew how to treat the clothing he wore. The men she had seen would not have been this careful, and she had to wonder why it was that the town Blacksmith, possibly one of the poorest men in the town, was the one to do it. Perhaps though it was the fact that Evie had spent what was equal to two years of Will's salary upon this outfit, and he hoped to either keep it in good condition, for whatever cause he had, or that he hoped to possibly return it and give Evie her money back. Even if he was successful in the return, more than likely Evie wouldn't except the money, and let him have it, knowing that in fact he did need it. But even with a slight knowledge of this, Rebecca couldn't help but watch the way he carefully fixed the cuffs of his shirt; whose ruffles came out passed his coat sleeve cuffs, how he prudently tweaked the collar of his shirt, waistcoat, and velvet jacket once more so they lay against him in how they were fitted to do so. The way he brushed his hand over each of his arms, gently tricking the folds of the velvet to face towards his hand once more, protecting the velvet from becoming threadbare. He treated his princely outfit as though he had done this for years; and it surprised her.

Will obviously felt Becka's eyes upon, and he looked down to her. He cleared his throat slightly, while correcting the sit of the cravat under his chin. The tiny gold pin that held it in place sparkling in the moonlight; and then what made her recall her subconscious thoughts that maybe he did come from some form of high-society, also twinkled in the moonlight. A simple ring. A simple, common enough golden ring; but this was less common, it had been put through the fleshy part of his left ear. A sign of not only low-class, but a sign of criminal filth. Rebecca inwardly sighed to herself, perhaps Will truly did have no class, just as all the men were saying about him. But in turning towards her, he smiled softly and offered her his hand, to help her up, knowing her dress weighed equal to her own weight. Becka looked at his hand for a moment, her eyes trailing over the darker and hardened calluses. She lifted her white slender hand and laid it into his, her fingers lacing with his; her soft and milk-treated palm, against his hard-work worn palm. She gripped his hand a little tighter, as he helped her to her feet again. Rebecca tucked her kohl-stained lace handkerchief into her bodice as they started to walk out of the garden.

Will opened the heavy wooden door to the Smithy, and walked inside, holding the weighted door agape for Rebecca Sparrow. With her heavy dress, weighted by the panniers that tied to her corset, and the thick ochre brocade, she made her way into through the door, passed him, and careful, due to her pink silk, heeled, shoes down the few steps to the main floor. Will closed the door, lowering the wooden barring plank used to lock the door from external entry when he closed up the shop. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the heavy metal weights lower and rise like clockwork when he locked the door.

Though the forge had been unlit for hours, the shop was still considerably warmer than the cool night air. Walking down the steps to meet her, Will carefully directed Becka through the shop towards his small living space. She turned her face to look at him and nodded, walking through the shop passed his half-made projects. She opened the door slowly, the stepped inside, gasping in shock. The room was small, cramped with a small cot and heavy woollen blanket, a pillow resting at one end of the bed. Beside it was an unadorned nightstand, on which rested an oil lamp; the glass cover dirtied with soot and smoke. Beside the lamp lay a small leather bound journal. His book of orders from the people of Port Royale, after all he was the Blacksmith. Inside he calculated the billing for each and every piece that he had made. It was so far removed from anything that she had ever been present in. It was both appalling, and heartbreaking. Moments later Will stood In the doorway, now only in the dress shirt, and his breeches. His calves and feet were bare as he leaned against the doorframe, unbuttoning the ruffled cuffs. Seeing Will's shadow fall over the room from behind her, Becka turned to face him. The look on her face was everything she had tried to hide from him. Seeing her expression he sighed softly, looking into her hazel eyes from his place in the door way.

"I am sorry that I cannot give you better. This is all I have, you are welcome to sleep in here tonight."

He turned to walk back out into the shop, in which many lanterns were still lit, and simmering their oil happily from before he had left for the ball. A thought crossed Becka's psyche, and she looked towards him as he moved from the door.

"But where will you sleep tonight?"

Will paused and turned to look at her,

"I won't be sleeping, and if I do manage to exhaust myself, I will lay down by the forge. Make yourself at home as best you can."

She watched him, feeling badly for him, though it seemed to her that he was more than able to make that choice for himself. He had in fact been the one to tell her she was going to stay with him that evening. The light from the shop itself came in through the slatted walls, and the open doorway, falling upon her. She looked around the room once more, warming up to it eventually. It wasn't that she thought poorly of him because of his lack of personal possessions, it was more that she felt sorry for him, knowing that he should have more than this. Yet to her it surprised her, with what little he had, he was happy. Happier than she had seen anyone else in her life; and much happier than she herself was. For a moment envy washed over her, unlike she, William Turner was free to come and go as he pleased. He was free to shrug off the shackles of society, while she was forever bound by them. She regretted being born to the family that she had been, while she turned to look in the small, but surprisingly ornate, mirror. The kohl had streaked down her face, and her throat, her hair was a mess, and starting to escape the pompadour she had teased it up into. She looked like a witch in comparison to the princess she had been mere hours before. She cast her eyes down, not wanting to ask Will if there was anyway that she could bath, she could see from his room that it may be rather rude to ask. But he surprised her, knocking carefully on the frame of the door. Becka turned around once more, jumping slightly, startled as she was called forth once more out of her thoughts.

"Mr. Turner what's the matter?"

He laughed softly, shaking his head, his hair taken down from the ribbon it had been held back due to. The chocolate waves hanging down around his shoulders. In his arms he carried a metal basin, a linen cloth over his shoulder. Under his arm was tucked folded up fabric, from what she could see of it.

"Nothing is the matter, I assumed that you would wish to wash up before going to sleep. I've brought you clean warm water, a bar of soap and a cloth. I'm aware its not exactly what you are used to, but its all that I could do on short notice. I'm sorry. But its warm, heated by the glowing embers in the forge."

He walked into the room that was in truth, his, and set the metal, water-filled basin down on the small dresser that he owned, and took the linen towel from off of his shoulder, laying it beside the bowl. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bar of soap that he had brought for her, setting it atop the towel.

"I've brought you some clean clothing of mine as well."

From under his arm he took what she had originally believe to be folded fabric, and laid it on the bed behind her. A simple off-white shirt and a pair of sepia coloured breeches. Becka, turned towards the bed and stooped as best as her corseted waist would let her, as he looked upon the clothing that he had brought for her. Her fingertips moving over the soft and worn material. Over the five brass buttons of the breeches, the three moving down the front of the waist band, to hold the breeches closed at the waist, but most likely fitted for William's slender waist. And the two buttons the flap, one at each corner to close up the pants over the wearer's private place. Will's soft voice continued on, cutting through her silence, of both voice and mind, she had been just looking at the clothes, barely registering they were fitted to Will's exact measurements, and would therefore be somewhat loose upon her.

"I am sorry I cannot produce a night shift for you to sleep in, but this is what I had at my disposal-"

Becka turned to him, and smiled softly,

"Do not worry so much. Thank you, it means more than you know for the simple fact you have done this much for me. The clothing is fine, it looks comfortable enough."

She walked the few paces towards him, the wood that created the heightened heels of her silk shoes, tapping on the floor in sharp clicks. She lifted her arms and hugged him lightly, out of appreciation and gratitude for his kindness.

"Thank you, its considerably more than Nolan would have had me wearing by now,"

She actually smirked slightly, causing Will to laugh cheerfully, his head tilting back just a little. Becka remained smiling as she watched the young man in front of her laugh in a way that she had only seen very few people do; sincerely. When the moment had passed, and although it passed quickly, it had seemed a lifetime to Becka as she watched him, Will smiled and nodded his head,

"I'll leave you to bathe and retire, while the water is still warm. Goodnight Becka, sleep well."

He closed the door behind him almost silently as he stepped out of the room, turning to work through the night, to at least start to make up for the work that he had let slide all week. Even thought tomorrow was another Sunday, and therefore his one day off that week.

Becka turned around to face the basin of water that Will had brought to her, it was still steaming away, meaning it would stay warm for quite some time yet. She waited a few minutes, to see if Will would once again knock on the door. But shortly she heard the clanging of metal, heated, and being beaten by a heavy hammer. Knowing now that it was highly unlikely he would come to see her again, she started to remove her heavy ball gown. Moving the lace on the right side of her stomacher, she discreetly unhooked the tiny metal hooks from the other side of her dress; letting it open to reveal her black corset. The ochre over-dress was two pieces; the heavy and large skirts, and the lighter, upper half. She easily removed the upper piece, and laid it onto the bed , turning once more to take off the heavy skirts. When finally they where removed, she took the second layer, the crystalline white underskirts off, laying them to the side as well. The panniers she easily unlaced from where they had been made to join with her corset. Now came the difficult part, removing her corset on her own. She reached back, find the knot, and tore away at it with nimble fingers, and after many tense moments, she felt the black corset loosen, easy her ribs back into their rightful places, as well as her organs. She had to know that the corset was no good for her body. She was left in a dark ivory coloured cotton under shift, which fell nearly the length right to the floor, and easing this off she soaked the linen towel into the warm water, and washed the grim from herself. Her necklace she had removed some time ago already.

Feeling much more relaxed, now that she had bathed, she turned to the bed and saw Will's clothing laying there for her. This was far from what she was used to, and should any one find out, such as her mother, that she had worn men's clothing she would be disowned, by family, and by society. But right now, it was clean, and it was clothing, and she didn't care. She pulled the billowing cotton shirt over herself, the collar opening up to the middle of her chest, The shirt on its own, tailored for Will's long torso, fell to her mid thighs. It was warm, and though worn out, it was cozy. She looked to the sepia breeches and unbuttoned all five of the buttons, and stepped into them, pulling them up to where they were meant to sit, in the middle of her torso. She buttoned the little brass buttons shut, sealing them around her waist, and closed the front flap. They were loose, very loose on her. Than again, they had been rather loose-fitting upon Will as well, made for comfort. Becka wrapped her arms around herself, enjoying the feel of the soft fabric against her skin, the fabric that had been wholly unrestricting, unlike that which she was used to.

Becka, looking now into the mirror, lifted her hands up, gently removing the ostrich feather, and the flower from her hair. Taking pin, after pin, after pin from her golden locks, her hair fell back down around her shoulders, flowing in a slightly matted mass down her back. She looked around, and found a silver and boar's hair, hair brush on the nightstand. She lifted it, seeing Will's own dark hair in the bristles, she put it to her golden curls and brush them out. Within moments they fell once more, soft and coiling down her back. She sat down on the cot, and gasped slightly; the mattress much harder than her own of goose down, the Blacksmith's obviously stuffed with straw. She laid back, pulling the heavy woollen blanket up over herself, and laying her head against the pillow; the whole bed smelled heavily of Will, not in a way that was disgusting, but it did hold his personal scent. Subconsciously Rebecca cuddled a little further into his bed, as she slowly fell asleep.

She sat up quickly, and for a moment she did not know where she was. All around her were objects foreign to her, and certain with the mattress this hard, it could not be her own bed. Looking around, her eyes adjusting to the semi dark, Becka realized where she was; Will Turner's bed, in his shop. For a moment she thought that he must still be working the clanging of metal though was now almost an extinct animal. Surely he must be retiring to go to sleep soon; a pang of guilt ran through her, she had taken his bed from him, and willingly. She should be the one sleeping by the forge. But then she heard a grunt from the shop, not just any grunt, it sounded like Will was fighting with someone; the fear rose up inside her. Was he going to meet his end because of her? Because she had not gone home with Nolan, nor had she returned home? She wouldn't, and couldn't let that happen.

Pushing the woollen blanket off of her she got out of the cot quickly and moved to the door, opening it and stepping out. What she saw, was not what she had been expecting. Will was not fighting another person, but rather a wood and sheepskin padded dummy. He himself was moving quickly, keeping up with a rhythm that was running through his nerves, carrying him while his mind remained blank. Will attacked once more, a fast step forward and he clashed his metal cutlass against the wooden dummy's 'arm'. With the force, the dummy turned, a metal cutlass attached to the opposite arm came flying around. Becka held her breath, terrified Will would be decapitated; but the Blacksmith ducked at the last second, and sprang back up. He made one last move, crossing his left foot over the right, and stepping so that he turned himself around quickly, slashing at the sheepskin that split open. His hair flying out around him as he moved.

She watched him, awestruck; to her the final blow had seemed to move in slow motion, watching his hair move, the way he stepped, the folds in his clothing. Out of the corner of his eye he must have spotted her, because panting, he set down his cutlass and dusted himself off, blushing slightly as he walked to her.

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

Becka looked up at him, only now realizing that he was right there with her. She shook her head,

"No. I woke up because I am not in my own home, and I heard you fighting when I woke up. I was afraid that maybe the navy had come to arrest you, or kill you for housing me tonight."

Will could not help but laugh at her statement, but seeing the hurt expression that Becka wore, his chuckling faded away softly.

"I am not laughing at you, per say, I am laughing because the navy couldn't come in here without just cause. Its not illegal to house someone that does not wish to go home, especially since you are not a criminal. On the other hand, if you had given me accommodation tonight in your home, the navy could come in and physically remove me, if they had just cause to arrest me. My crimes are old now, there's no need to worry now. Besides, I don't think most of those men can fight well enough to try and get passed me anyway."

Becka was looking him over, a question burning in her mind; well, two questions truly.

"Who taught you to wield a cutlass?"

Will looked up at her, having started to clean the fluff from the sheepskin off of the iron blade of his sword. He shook his head,

"No one, I taught myself. Why do you ask?"

"Because obviously you know how to fight! I had this silly fear that dummy was going to decapitate you. I wanted to call out to you but held my tongue."

"It's a good thing you did, if I had lost concentration it probably would have decapitated me, or at least slashed my throat open."

Becka shivered, horrified at the thought of Will's throat being opened up, spilling the life giving Venetian red blood. She shook her head, and looked up to Will, who was waiting for her to speak, yet again. She was still badly intimidated by him; his presence was stronger than his personality. What he lacked in brutality, was made up for by the murderous feeling that he gave off; or at least it was the one that he showed the world. To protect himself.

"I..I was wondering,"

"Yes Rebecca?"

She looked up to him, the apprehension easily visible in her hazel eyes,

"Would you teach me to fight, the way you do?"

It took Will by surprise, in truth he thought she had been going to ask him if he would take her home. It took him a moment to think of what to say to her. Unable to form sentences, at least those that made sense, he ran his tanned, and worn hand through his dark hair. After a moment of thought, and watching Becka chew on her lip nervously, knowing she was internally cursing herself for asking him, Will nodded.

"Alright, I'll teach you."

Becka's eyes lit up brightly, she couldn't believe her luck. She was sure that he was going to say no, and it seemed that he had been ready too mere seconds ago. Whether it was because he didn't think she could fight, or that he didn't believe that as a lady she should fight, was another question, but it didn't need answering, because he had agreed.

"Oh thank you! When do you want to start lessons? Next week or-"

"No, right now."

He put his cutlass into her hands, and Rebecca was in shock. She could barely hold the weapon, yet alone wield it yet. Not too mention it had to be two o'clock in the morning, on a Sunday. Will walked around her in a slow circle, examining her, and making slight disappointed noises. Becka's brows knit together as she watched him.

"What is it?"

"Mm… you have to learn to stand right and hold the cutlass before I can do anything else."

Becka blushed and straightened herself out, trying to help him, but Will shook his head. He walked up behind her, and put his arms around her, holding her hands that held the cutlass.

"No, your knees need to be bend slightly,"

He nudged the back of her knees carefully with his own knee, she buckled with a slight yelp under him, but he held her fast, not letting her fall. Leaning over her should he corrected her hands upon the cutlass; needing to start with two before she could work up to one-handed combat. Becka was holding her breath, the Blacksmith, turned instructor, was so close to her. She could feel his warmth radiating off of him; his jaw not far from her cheek as he leaned; she could feel his warmth on her face. His soft hair brushing against her ear as he moved. She turned her face ever so slightly, her eyes turned to look at him. Feeling her eyes upon his face, he turned his face slightly, his eyes turned to her. He smiled kindly, and looked forward once again. She could feel his chest against the back of her shoulder, his abdomen curved close to the curve of her spine. She closed her eyes, still breathing only slightly.

Everyday for three months now, Rebecca had been in the Smithy, taking Will from his work for a few hours while he taught her. She was catching on quickly to the tricks of fencing. Whether it was she wanted to show off and impress him, or it was that she was a fast learner was another question, but it didn't matter much.

Will had given her a cutlass that he had made for her, and only her. It was slightly smaller than the rest in the shop, and it was lighter; made for her delicate frame. But it was strong as any. He had given it to her on the condition that she was to practice, but not let her parents know of what she was doing, and if they found out, not to ask where she had picked up such a unique sword. Though that question would not be hard to answer, not at all. Who other than the port Blacksmith would be capable of making such an item, especially to her measurements? Though she could have ordered it from another port, and had it delivered to her by way of the market, it was unlikely. Everyone knew the finest blades came from Port Royale, and now most of the Navy, Officers and Privates alike, were carrying one of his blades. Each stamped with a tiny 'W.T.' near the tang.


	4. An Irrelevant Argument

**Chapter Four  
An Irrelevant Argument**

March had come in like a lamb, but it was going to going out like a lion; full of dreadful winds and rain. March was, like usual, much the same as November was, it was however far more dangerous. By November, the horrid weather that had been plaguing them all through the summer, had started to die down, and the Winter calm was coming upon them. March though, was much the opposite. With the Spring and Winter coming, and with them the hurricane season, the weather instead of dying down, only grew worse and worse.

This year, the year 1726 of the Lord, was going so far much like the last year had, weather wise that is. Last year in the middle of March Port Royale had been unlucky enough to have such a severe tropical storm that the hurricane season was nearly announced three months before its official start. Oh how the winds had raged. The winds came first, driving icy rain that lashed at the port from all sides. Trees had been ripped out of the earth, animals driven out of their dens. It was though two countries were at war, and Port Royale happened to be on the very middle border between the two kingdoms. The storm had at that time lasted for four days and nights, finally on the fifth day it started to ease, while normality slowly returned to the colony. By the end of the sixth day, the daily clamour that filled the streets had returned to normal.

But there were those that had been unfortunate in that storm. Several houses of the lower-class had been completely destroyed. For weeks while those people remained homeless, starvation and pestilence ran wild through the streets. If one had no need to leave the home, they were ordered not to, by decree of Governor Swann. And although the houses had been rebuilt, many of the people that had been left exposed had succumbed to the disease, or the climate, and had died. They had been buried in a five-day funeral on the other side of the port, where the tropical forest stretched on, sheltering a cemetery. The headstones, dating back to 1655 when the British had founded Port Royale, after seizing the island of Jamaica from the Spanish, were horribly decayed. Though it had been only seventy years, it seemed as though three hundred had passed. Each of the tombstones were covered in a thick green moss, that spread so quickly, it seemed as though a living beast, devouring everything in its path. If one would look closely in the graveyard, they would see the sudden influx of graves, and all ready the same. **Died July 7th, 1692.**

The morning of the seventh of July, 1692, a terrible earthquake, and the following tidal wave had crippled the city of Port Royale, bringing with it wide-spread destruction. Two thirds of the port, or more, crumbled into the sea, claiming all those people that had been living there. This was back in the time that Port Royale had been the most notorious Pirate Hideout in the Caribbean. Port Royale at the time was not known for its law-abiding citizens. Drunkenness, looting, and public prostitution ran wild. At the time of the earthquake, Port Royale was known to both residents, and outsiders, as far as the King himself worlds away, as the Sodom of the New World. It was believed that when the city fell, now thirty-three years passed, that it was God's retribution. A plague, a justice sent to punish the city that was drowning in sin.

Although theses graves were marked with names, and ages ranking from the most sorrowfully young, to the anciently old, the bodies themselves had been lost to the sea, and to the fissure in the rock that had split open when the quake hit. Surely the earth was opening up to Hell to take those that needed to be condemned. These graves were empty, but stood as a way of remembering those had lost their lives on the morning of July the seventh, 1692. No matter if they were decent, hard-working citizen, upper-class, or Pirate filth. Each was remembered for the life they lived (or in the case of a new born and its mother) the life they had not had the chance to live.

It seemed to those in the port that were highly religious, that the reason such a horrible storm had plagued them this passed year, in 1728, was as a warning from God that should the port slip to its former shameful ways, that he would once again, claim it with the sea, and this time rid the world of it, and wipe away all traces of those that inhabited it, good, bad, evil and all.

Nothing could be easy, could it? No, of course it couldn't. it was following some natural law of the universe that every time something seemed to be going in the favor of her, that it was unexpectedly thrown against her. Some wrench in the pot as it were.

Though perhaps it was by her own hand this time, yes perhaps it was. She was the one that had put herself into this situation in which she did not need to be in. She was the one that had told herself to go out and about when it was prohibited by the Governor, simply for the sake of everyone's safety, yes, it had been no other but herself. But it wasn't as though she was trying to end her own life, as she would later be questioned, it was simply that after so long being kept inside, she had thought enough was enough of it. She couldn't take it much longer, for fear that she would lose her mind to cabin fever; as the maids had already started to show signs of.

Five days had it been. Five long and highly eventless days. By now she had learned that the ceiling of her room had exactly 7,927 stucco-ed daubs, eight hundred nails in the floor to hold the polished and sealed floorboards down; eight hundred nails hand made by a Blacksmith, the Blacksmith… each nail was individual, each held its own personality, or that is to say that each held a different sliver of its crafter's personality. Some were obvious by sight, the others you had to touch to feel the soul inside of it. There was one such nail, nearing the head of her bed that had caught her attention. This nail had started to come loose of its residential floorboard, and she had been unlucky enough to step on it, the rounded iron head leaving a red and aching impression in the ball of her foot. As she knelt down, and looked to the nail, her fingers graced it for a second, just a moment, and she felt a rush inside her heart. Caught by surprise, she pulled back from the floorboard, before calming and once again putting her fingers upon the nail. She worked it out of the warped parquet, and let it rest in the palm of her white hand. The nail rolled around slightly, before resting snugly in the slight fold of her warm hand. It was perfect; symmetry and perfection shone forth into her eyes. She turned it over carefully in her hand, inspecting the back side that had been hidden against her flesh. This was not the work of J. Brown. He had never put this much care, this much devotion, and love into any of his pieces, not from the smallest and most insignificant as a single nail, even to that of the grand sabres that the King's Royal Navy carried. All those sabres were once marked with a small stamped "J. Brown", to show the work of Port Royale's last Blacksmith. However roughly five years before there had been a shift in power within the commanding ranks of the Navy, and with it came a shift in the way the Navy was equipped. When the new commanding officer had learned that J. Brown had been dead then already for a year, his heart sank; knowing that Navy would not have the quality of sabres they needed for their duties. Until that is, one day he had caught the glimpse of what one of his younger recruits wore as his weapon upon his belt; a fine sword, perfectly balanced with the tang nearly the full width of the blade. This sabre that he had seen on the belt of this young man was everything that the Navy deserved, in his mind. It was both a piece of artwork that should be admired, as much as it was a hard and punishing weapon, capable of cleaving a man in two when applied the proper way. Its creator deserved praise and reward. But when he learned that the creator, the master crafter that had made such a beautiful, and deadly sabre, he grew weary, and jealous; the Blacksmith was no more than sixteen years of age at that time. And yet they gave to him the commission. Over the course of two years, he was to craft 1,500 sabres for the King's Navy. For two years the young man worked day and night, night and day and miraculously at the end of those two years, he had in fact filled the order, fashioning 1,500 beautifully identical and yet strikingly different blades for the Navy. The commander had no choice but to give the young Blacksmith his commission. They paid him sixty pieces of eight; triple what any other man made in the course of two years. But what was that worth, when he did ten fold the amount of work in those two years than any other man had done. Where was the justice in that? Somehow, in seven hundred and thirty days, he had shaped 1,500 sabres. And although to the common man, this made the young Blacksmith rather wealthy, the small fortune of his sixty pieces of eight, plus another ten that he had been saving, where gone within a month; spent. The news traveled the port from the poorest of the poor, to the richest of the rich fast as wild fire. All assumed that the coins had been flittered away on drink and pleasurable company. Though the young man neither had time for company, of any sort, pleasurable or not, he wouldn't have spent his money on such a trivial feat anyway, what was the point of pleasurable company if he was not in love with the partner in which he shared it? As for the rumours that he had flittered his coinage away upon drink, it was soon learned that the young man drank nothing stronger than tea. Tea with lemon if he was feeling particularly adventurous on that day. Its not that he was boring; its that he simply did not want to draw attention to himself that needn't be there. No one but he himself and a select few ever knew what the money was spent so quickly on; and those that did know wouldn't admit it, for his sake. It seemed that those that did not know, but wished to, never noticed the starving children of peasants, and poor parents, had full bellies for a year. That the peasant children, with tattered clothing had new and clean clothing; and a set a little finer for their Sunday best. No one ever noticed the children that couldn't afford books and schooling because of their dyer situations, were in school with new books. No one ever noticed the poor, except the poor themselves. Unknown to all the middle and upper-class, the young Blacksmith had given away his sixty pieces of eight commission, as well as an extra ten that he had been saving, in order to make the lives of the children all around him just a little brighter. He did so without every being asked too, he did it with a heart of gold, only caring for others and not for himself. He did it to see those that needed aid, be given it, for it had been denied to him when he needed it in his darkest hours, now seemingly so long ago. It was just a nail, a small nail from among the eight hundred in the parquet, but behind it was a legacy.

She couldn't help but smile, seeing the little iron nail in the palm of her hand. It was perfectly fashioned. She remembered now that three years earlier, when the Blacksmith was eighteen and finally finished his commission for the Navy, her father had had the floor boards in her room replaced. With it the old wooden pegs used as the nails had been discarded, and the Blacksmith commissioned to make eight hundred iron spikes to hold the wood down. Each nail was individual, each held its own personality, or that is to say that each held a different sliver of its crafter's personality. Some were obvious by sight, the others you had to touch to feel the soul inside of it. This was one you could feel its creator's soul inside it. So much toil and dedication had been poured into such a tiny thing that it positively glowed with the heart and soul of the Blacksmith.

She smiled to herself, unable to let go of the little nail, and knowing she could not put it back, in fear of once again stepping upon it, or worse (in her mind) that such a beautiful and loved object be hidden and eventually lost. No, she could not let something so plain, yet so loved, go without remembrance. No. She walked to the bureau on the other side of her room, and pulled out the middle drawer. A faint blush came to her normally white cheeks, colouring them rose for a mere moment. In front of her, folded up carefully was a man's clothing. It was a well worn, and slightly hole filled billowing white cotton shirt, and a pair of worn-soft sepia breeches, with five brass buttons. She ran her fingers over the soft fabric, taking in the feeling of the once crisp weave, before moving the clothing aside, reaching into the bottom of the drawer. She pulled forth sewing scissors, and a spool of leather lace. She moved back to the bed and sat down slowly on the white cotton, flower embroidered, duvet cover. She set the spool and the scissors down, taking the end of the leather lace and tying it to the very bottom of the nail, before wrapping around the shaft, and the point, making it harmless. She tied it again, and lifting the old antique scissors that squeaked in need of both oiling, and sharpening, she cut the cord. Running a careful fingertip over the wrapped leather, she decided that it was safe enough, and lifted the spool of lace again. Setting the nail into the folds of her skirt where she could see it, she measured out two feet of the tan leather lace. She wrapped the middle of it around the nail, just beneath its flattened top, before tying it together, and then once more at the very ends of the lace length. She lifted the primitive necklace over her fair head, and tossed her flaxen hair out of its way. The cool metal of the nail came to rest between her breasts, and against her heart, inside of her dress. And there it would stay, like a little second heart to her.

But now, two days later and the storm was just as badly raging as it had been on the third day; when she had found the perfect spike, which still now hung between her breasts on its leather thong. Since the morning however, the lashing rains and choking winds had started to dissipate and it seemed as though the storm was dying out. Rebecca had decided to take her chances, going against all of her family's and the Governor's direct orders.

At first it had been an easy enough travel experience. She walked along the beach, while the waves licked high at her dress, and she knew the salt stains would ruin the silk, but she didn't seem to mind all that much. The waves licked high, while the sky remained bleak, and blackened with the storm; the winds still swirling, though now far lessened, still toyed with her golden curls. As she walked, the heightened heel of her shoe became trapped within the wet sand, and she stopped walking, pausing to step out of her shoes, and pick them up. She brushed the damp sand from the silk brocade that covered the healed leather "skeletal" base of her shoes. She sighed to herself, slowly looking up and around; having been so lost in her thoughts as she had walked, she had failed to see where she now was. Looking around she took in the part of the beach, and half laughed to herself, thinking back to the end of last October, when it had happened.

When young Master Turner (for though he was an adult he was still called "master" for he was yet unwedded) had pulled her out of the water, thinking that she had been drowning. She bit her lip, trying to suppress a grin as she remembered how he specifically told her that she was drowning, or at least thrashing and flailing like some sort of beached sea creature. She stoned her features once more. Turner had been very rude to say something so crass as that had been, to her. That was not the way that a lady was to be talked to, hell, you wouldn't even talk to a sailor like that, though perhaps that was different when you took into consideration that he was in fact a pirate. Blacksmith by day, Pirate by night it seemed to be. That was certainly how it had seemed in the last few months.

In the last few months, young Master Turner had been showing her both his sides. Once again, Blacksmith by day, Pirate by night. Or perhaps it would have been more to the point to say, Blacksmith by morning and eve, and Pirate by mid-afternoon, for that was certainly how his life had been going in the months since the Celebratory Ball. Since the night that he had offered to teach Becka how to defend herself, he had shown her two opposing personalities, and together they seemed to not match, but one viewed without the other did not seem to make a whole person, at least not on William Turner; possibly on another man it would have been different. Each day when Rebecca walked into the door of the Smithy to have her daily lesson, she saw the change in the man that she had come to call friend, and hopefully he had finally arrived at the same conclusion. Her lesson ranged from one o'clock, till four or five o'clock, depending on how deeply involved into the lesson plan her instructor had become. And each day when she left she did so with an aching, and exhausted body, but she enjoyed her lessons, and knew that someday, though everyone told her that a lady need not know how to defend herself, that she very well might need the skill; even against her own husband should he be abusive. Will wouldn't always be there to pull her out of chaotic situations; not unless it was he that she married. Unlikely, she still did not feel comfortable even being seen going into his Smithy. But unless he was either one that she ended up marrying, or he remained close friends with her, and by close it was meant so close that it would be a shock to learn that he was not her older brother to people that did not know either of their histories. But even if it was the case that she should be wedded to William Turner, what use would the skill be against him? He was her teacher, and the teacher would rather unlikely be surpassed by the student, so if he chose to be abusive there was nothing that could be done. Yet that did not sound like the Will she knew, neither of his personalities, not the Blacksmith, the gentle and kind Blacksmith, or the fierce-some and wild pirate. He did not seem the type to beat his wife; he wasn't like Nolan Ralph. And even if it was he that she did wed in the very end, what would the need be in fighting him but for the same fun that she was having with him now? There would be no point. Because neither would fight the other without a just cause; each caring for the other too much to truly hurt them, either physically or emotionally. But when she walked in that door she saw his first side; the Blacksmith, the one side that everyone had been used to. The side that was safe, but it wasn't the side that the other women in the port (though it still remained true that none of them would dare to admit this) seemed attracted to, the mysterious side, the side none of them had experienced, except for Rebecca. But as she walked in that door she always received a kind and courtly bow of his head, before he looked up to his small, ticking, clock to check to make sure she was on time, and that so was he in his work. As soon as he looked down from that clock she could almost see the change in his eyes; like a switch turning out the lights and turning on a new set. He would walk around from his anvil, and grab his cutlass up from the table to his right, his hand fitting into the grip. He would flick his wrist around a few times, working loose his joint so that he may fight; cutting the air into figure eights with his blade. He would tilt his head to each side, his vertebrae making a soft cracking sound as he worked out the kinks from his job; his head always hanged low to see his work. He would step his feet apart, opening up his stance, and bracing his body, waiting for Rebecca. And she would take her slightly smaller cutlass into her hand, and brace herself to match her teacher, and make the first move. She would lunge forth, and he would parry her easily. She would lunge again, and he would parry once more, turning himself around this time in order to use her force against her. As he turned he would put his arm out to the side of his body, this blade coming around to her throat gently, and harmlessly, as she almost fell into his back with her previous forward momentum; her sword always going passed his right side, harmlessly, though there was one awkward time that she had shredded the side of his shirt by accident as her newly sharpened blade passed by him. His shirt had fallen open, and therefore off of him, hanging on by the still attached seems of the left side; he pulled the rest of the shirt off, and faced her, bare-chested. Each day the routine was the same until after a few weeks she started to realize that in order to lunge first, she would never beat her master, not unless she grew better than him in her skill, and without submitting to his lessons and trying something different, how could she ever be expected to rival her opponent? Finally one day she tried a new approach. She lunged for her first movement, yes, but for her second she did not. Instead she side-stepped him and hacked back at him, for the first time catching his blade. And in his surprise, William's vanity and desire to win clicked on, his eyes flashing. He attacked, not playing anymore, and Becka was thrust into a very real battle for her life. They fought and fought, till Becka eventually fell over, and William was over her quickly, his blade tip at the soft spot of her throat. She had swallowed nervously, and looked up at him, and spoke softly,

"Will! Please stop! Will I'm sorry!"

And just as quickly as it had come, the anger and competitiveness in Will Turner's eyes vanished away. The sweat was rolling down him just as badly as it was rolling down Becka, if not worse. His hair dripped, at least all the loose pieces that had fallen out of his tie, around his face as they had fought. He was panting, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths as he looked down at her. He pulled his blade away and offered to her his hand, and she had looked to him nervously, still in fear for her life, but seeing no anger or malice in his eyes, she nodded ever so faintly, and took his rough and calloused hand, as he pulled her up. He grinned, half laughing as he panted,

"You fought well…It was about time you actually tried to antagonize me, when you're in a fight for your life, you will do anything to save yourself, and I'm glad you eventually realized that."

"But I didn't know you were going to try and kill me! Well, at least now I know you would have stopped before you killed me, but still--"

But Will interjected, his brow raising slightly, looking at her with a faint, slightly evil smirk upon his lips. He turned his face slightly, so the right side of his jaw was almost touching his right shoulder, his spiced rum eyes looking back at her, the brow still raised.

"Would I have?"

In his voice there was neither any question, nor any bantering tone. Rebecca's eyes widened, and she had gasped in horror; would he have truly continued until he had murdered her? Was that what he was truly trying to say? No, surely he didn't have heart enough in him to do so. Than again, the old rumours that he had murdered his former master, slave-driver was more to the point however, J. Brown, came once again into her mind, and she had to know…

"Will? Did… did you murder J. Brown? I mean… did you kill him and take his shop that way?'

Will looked only half surprised, most likely having been expecting this question. He looked to her, turning his face slowly back to the very front, his eyes never leaving hers. There was no slight smirk anymore on his lips, only a look of extreme seriousness, and for a moment Becka sighed inwardly, knowing he was going to tell her no he had not killed James, and that it was just all a stupid rumour. But that's not what came from his velvet lips when he finally did open them to speak.

"I was fifteen! And had been his slave for two years at the time... He was supposed to teach me, but he didn't…What he did do, was he rather forced me to learn how to work with burning metal on my own, through my mistakes and many burns and injuries. Now I may not be the world's richest man, though neither am I the poorest, and by no means am I any man's slave! James got exactly what he was deserving of!"

He panted slightly, with the increasing volume and fierce passion in his voice and in his words.

Becka's eyes widened passed the point she believed that they could open. Horror etched itself into her face, she was just learning the truth, and she was now the only other person other than Will, who was alive in this world, that knew it. She dropped her cutlass in surprise, it clattered to the compact earth floor. Will watched the blade fall and rattle on the floor as he looked back up to Becka. She clutched at her heart in shock, and she fell over on her rump, looking up at him in fear once more, but this fear was beyond that of even just then when his blade had been to her throat; she had never believed then that he would have been capable of killing her, she didn't want to believe he was capable of killing any man. How could this man be trusted? At fifteen he had murdered a man, and felt absolutely no remorse about it, at least none that he had been showing to her. She couldn't believe her ears, she didn't want to. Tears actually came to her eyes, and she hiccupped as she fought back her sobs. She was beyond afraid, but she was also extremely disheartened; Will had seemed like the kind of gentle, trust worthy man, the kind someone could love deeply, or hate totally, and both could be done very easily. She turned away from him, not wanting him to see as the tears poured down her dirtied cheeks; and Will seeing the pain he had caused her, took no chances in waiting. He grabbed her hand and pulled her up to her feet and into his arms, hugging her almost bone-crushingly tightly as she sobbed. Becka gripped at his shirt, hiccupping and sobbing as she cried into him, still in complete fear. He softly tried to hush her as he rubbed up and down her back, specifically between her shoulder blades.

"Shh… Shhhh Becka… I would never kill you, or injure you purposely. I am your friend, your ally, I have no need to harm you. But you must know the truth; yes I killed J. Brown, my former master. But you cannot tell a soul, do you understand me?"

He pulled back from her ever so slightly, looking down upon her, her cheeks stained with tears and dirt and sweat. Becka's large hazel eyes moved up, looking upon him. In his eyes there was sorrow, a sorrow he had not seen before; and she felt inclined to believe what he said, yet she did not know why she felt so. She nodded her head, swallowing.

"I promise no one will ever find out from my lips."

Will nodded his head, watching her without blinking,

"I will hold you to that. Please, please don't cry. You act as though you see before you a monster that was mere moments ago a man, and your friend. But I'm telling you, it is not I that is, or was, the monster. Brown got exactly what was coming to him, I am sure I was not the first child that he has worked so hard it almost brought death too them, and I am sure I am one of the few lucky ones that escaped it with their lives. Rebecca, its not as though I do not feel terrible for what I did, I committed a great sin against God; I took a life. But I do not regret what I did, no I do not regret it. Because of me and my actions he can never harm another person again. Rebecca, please, I am not a monster. I am no different now than I was when you walked in this door a few hours ago."

But Becka looked out the open window, and eventually back to Will, nervously. She gathered up her few belongings that she had brought with her, and put her cutlass onto her belt.

"I... I have to be going. Good-day Mr. Turner"

It was obvious that she was fighting with herself as she walked out of the Smithy; forcing herself not to run away from where he was standing. He noticed too, with a pang of guilt and pain in his heart that she had once again returned to calling him 'Mr. Turner' when it had taken him so long to have her start to call him by his given name. It was only in the last few weeks, over the course of the lessons that they had become friends, that Becka had started to use the name 'Will' more and more easily, until it was the first thing that came off of her tongue when she saw him, not 'Mr. Turner', not 'William', but 'Will'. He watched her leave, his heart breaking in his breast; there went his best friend and only person he had wanted as company. He moved slowly, as though in a trance, and that was as close of a thing as it could be called, towards his bed. He sank into the straw-stuffed thin mattress as his thoughts turned black. Outside a terrible storm was rolling in…

Becka stood, still on the beach where she had first met William "Will" Turner. Memories of that day washed over her, as she smiled to herself. The nail that he had crafted, on its leather thong between her breasts served as a reminder of her friend, the port Blacksmith. As long as that necklace hung there, it was like having a piece of him with her at all times.

Looking out to the horizon, the storming skies still dark, she knew what she had to do. She couldn't stay away any longer, it had been too long as it was. She needed to see him. Turning away from the water she gathered up her now sand stained skirts and hurried back from the beach, along through the town. Along her way though she noticed how eerily silent the streets were; not a single person about but herself; the market was deserted, as it never was, even the chickens weren't running about the streets; or the stray dogs. It was like a plague port; with not a living soul remaining; and she the only visitor. The wind was picking up again, and quite suddenly. Lashing and pounding against the buildings; all around her the structures creaked threateningly. The wind was strong hands, clawing and tearing away at her; pulling her hair and matting it together, while the seems of her brocade dress started to loosen, the force of the wind jerking at it snapping several threads. Knowing she didn't have as much time as she desperately needed to get to where she wished to be, she started to run, stumbling as the wind pushed her in her heeled shoes. She was practically thrown against the Smithy door as she reached it.

The wind was terribly cold, as she rubbed her arms, banging on the door of the Smithy; praying that he answered the door without delay. Inside, young Master Turner was busy working away, it was just another work day to him; though with the imposed laws for the storm he was not permitted to leave his Shop; for his own safety of course. With a strong force, the hammer he held came down and clanged, meeting his project, and the anvil with as much force as his body could generate. The beating came rhythmically; every three seconds the clang of the metal rang out. But from somewhere between the metallic clashing he heard a soft noise, almost lost in the furious winds. A knocking on his door. At first he shook it off, deeming it to be the wind playing with his mind after all there was no one allowed out of their homes, and therefore no one could be knocking on his door. Something in him made him pause in his work however, waiting to see if the knocking came again. Outside Rebecca was getting more and more desperate for him to answer his door; she pounded again and again, praying that he was there, and simply had not heard her the first time. She kept pounding, nearing tears of fright as she waited for him, the winds tearing at her. William, hearing that it was someone knocking on his door, and was now crying out his name; though it was easily lost in the winds, dropped his hammer and dashed from his anvil; passing his trusted donkey, Theo. He scaled the steps up to the door within on large step from the lowest stair, and hurriedly lifted the barring plank; the metal gears turning and raising a weight, unlocking his door. Heaving the heavy wooden door, for which he was always thankful during storms, he caught sight of the pathetic, cowering, young woman with now matted gold hair.

He was in shock; for one thing he did not think she would ever come back to see him (and he could certainly not go to visit her, with his station it simply wasn't proper) and secondly, she was not supposed to be out in this storm. With his pink lips slightly agape, and disbelief in his eyes, he grabbed her arm, none to lightly, and jerked her into the Smithy, onto the top step as he closed the door , as the wind tried to whistle through. He had to force his shoulder into the wood, using all the weight of his lean body to push the heavy oak door closed. He quickly lowered the barring plank, as the gears turned and the weights lowered; locking the door. He had designed this lock himself in his spare time, but that was another story.

Becka was in shock due to the brute force that he had used to both pull her inside (because of which she had nearly stumbled down the stairs into the shop) and that he had used to force the door of his shop closed behind her. William turned to her, though his features were not set in the smile that she had grown accustomed to her greeting him with. Instead they were twisted with a dark anger, an anger beyond that which she had ever seen in him before. It frightened her, horribly, knowing that she had caused this anger.

"What the hell are you doing here?!"

Finally Will's hardened voice cut through the tension between them; starting to double it. Becka looked to him in shock, mouthing words before she too found her voice, answering him.

"I needed to see. I missed you and I'm sorry that I ran out on you as such the other day-"

"But WHY are you here?! Its by decree of the Governor that no one is to be out, for their own safety! Damn it Becka you could have been killed!"

The worry was obvious in his voice; at least to himself, and to someone that was not being lectured on their actions, by him. Becka crossed her arms, her stubborn streak showing.

"Yes I suppose so, but I wasn't! Will why can't you just be happy to see me!?"

"Because you're not supposed to be out!"

Becka, who had never gotten along with her father, was starting to see the truth behind the theory that women choose men that are like their fathers…not only for love, but also for friendship. And Will was starting to sound just like her father, Maverick Sparrow.

"Oh you are INSUFFERABLE! You're just like my father! Maybe it was a bad idea to come here in the first place!"

Will didn't like that comparison one bit, and he was about to show her exactly what he thought of it. His teeth gritted, and whatever loving friendship that he had held for her was lost now in a sea of boiling anger, that threatened to flood his entire mind, which would leave them in a steady-state of hatred for one another.

"Oh really!? Is that what you think? Well I would hate to be your father with the way you run about doing exactly the opposite of what you should be doing! Shouldn't you be married by now?!"

"Shouldn't you, MASTER Turner!? You should be a husband! A FATHER !"

Will growled, he didn't need reminding that he had yet to fulfill both of those titles; that he had yet to even do the act that could make him the second of those titles; the one that he desired to be the most. Grinding his teeth together, a dark malice in his eyes he moved closer to her, to growl at her in her face.

"I'm well aware of that! But unlike you, YOUR HIGHNESS, I have not turned down every person that has come my way, that wanted to be involved with me! As for it being a bad idea to come here, of course it was! We're only in the eye of the storm!"

Becka bared her teeth angrily, pushing him back slightly, her hands on his partially exposed tan chest.

"I don't care if it's the brunt of the storm! I'm going home!"

She pulled back from him, turning around, and gathering her skirts, moving to leave the Smithy. But something inside of Will broke; and it wasn't anger. It was fear, fear for her life. He panted silently, as one does when terrified and it seems that everything is moving in slow motion; he'd never seen his world move like this before, not even the countless times his own life had been in danger. It was as though his actions were not his own; like he was watching this all happen through the eyes of another. His dirty and rough hand reached out, grabbing her white wrist and he pulled her back. Becka turned towards him in surprise, her brows still knit in anger. But he was going to take this chance, as it might be the very last that he had to do so. He pulled her close, putting his arms around her, as though to hug her as he had countless other times. But as he pulled her into the hug, he tilted his head gently to the right, his hair falling loose on the right side of the face, and framing his soot-covered features. Everything was still moving painfully slowly to him; and now to Becka, whose eyes were slowly widening as he grew closer and closer. He leaned in all the way, finally, and captured her lips beneath his own velvet soft lips.

He gripped her tightly, hugging her as though afraid to let go of her as he kissed her; afraid that she may fade away. His eyes were closed, his brows knit and raised in desperation as he slowly kissed her, longing for her to know how he felt. Becka was in shock, she tensed from head to toe at first when the Blacksmith's soft lips took hers, but after the split second, for that was all that it had been, of uncomfortable feels she lifted her arms, wrapping them around his neck, pulling him just a little closer, and kissed him back. Closing her eyes she melted into his warm kiss, gripping him tightly against her. Will's eyes opened in shock and for a moment he paused in his kiss, while she kissed him, looking at her in surprise. But that too passed and once more he closed his chocolate eyes, kissing her lovingly.

After a few long moments they slowly eased back from one another; Becka's eyes were closed, her lips slightly agape as she remained close to him, breathing deeply. Will opened his eyes just a little, peering through his eyelashes at her, watching the look on her beautiful face as the golden waves fell into her eyes. Slowly once the young woman had caught her breath she opened her sparkling hazel eyes and looked up at her friend, the Blacksmith. She smiled gently, oh so gently, and ran her soft finger tips over his tan cheek.

"I was not expecting that"

Will half laughed, both nervously, and without having fully catching his breath yet,

"Neither was I…"

Becka smirked as she looked to him, she laughed and kept caressing his tanned, and soot covered cheek.

"How can that be? It was you who kissed me"

Will smiled embarrassedly, nodding his head, his chocolate hair swaying around his eyes and framing his handsome face. He was still holding her, his arms still around her corseted waist, as one of hers remained around his neck, the other stroking his cheek.

"I know… I meant I was not expecting you to kiss me in return… I expected you to slap me"

She smiled and nuzzled his cheek gently, a little of the black soot remaining on her nose as she pulled away.

"After a kiss like that, even if I wanted too, I do not believe I could slap you. But why Will? Why did you kiss me?"

Will looked down embarrassedly, looking at their feet as he fought with himself over the answer. There were so many reasons. One being he was afraid of losing her, another being he was in love with her since he had met her. He swallowed and tried to work out his answer. Becka watched him for a moment, still stroking his cheek. But her fingers moved down once more, stroking to his jaw, before slowly tilting his chin up so that he was forced too look into her eyes,

"You can tell me anything Will…"

He smiled, hearing her words, and he knew that his reason would mean only anything to her, and to himself. He smiled and nodded, clearing his throat gently.

"Before you left I had to let you know that I love you, in case I never saw you again."

Becka looked at him, her jaw opening in shock once more, before she broke into a bright grin. Her voice remained calm, however if just barely as she looked into his dark eyes, seeing only truth.

"You love me?"

The Blacksmith nodded his head, looking back at her,

"With all of my heart… I have since the day I laid eyes on you…"

Becka grinned brighter, and kissed the tip of his nose, which was obvious that he had broken as a child. It curved almost imperceptibly towards the right, up in the bridge; only obvious in harsh lighting. Smiling, with her eyes gently closed, she pulled back from the young man once more.

"I love you too… very much so…"


End file.
